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/ n V 

sued Monthly. 


[No. 12.] 


Price 25 Cents. 


Entered at the Post Office at New York at Second Class Rates.— Oct. 10. 1889. 

Copyrighted by George Munro, 1889.— By Subscription, $3.00 per Annum. 


The Library of 

American Authors. 



! 




Idii G|(iloner’s Heirt 


I 


Bl LUCY MNBALL COMFORT, 

Author of -‘Claire’s Love-Life,” “Love and Jealousy,” “Married for Money,” etc. 


^ ^ ^ 


GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 VANDEWATER STREET, NEW YORK. 


*. . A 


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IDA CHALONER’S HEART; 

OR, 

THE HUSBAND’S TRIAL. 


BY 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT. 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO. PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 37 Vandewatkr Street. 


V 

Cl '2>4‘I^- 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 
GEORGE MUNRO, 

in the Offl.ce of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. O. 


IDA CHALONER’S HEART. 


CHAPTER I 

A KEW PUPIL. 

The little black- walnut clock on the mantel had just struck 
nine. 

It was a clear October morning, and from the Reverend Miio 
Gresham’s window the view was as bright and changeful as 
any autumn piece that glitters on the walls of the Academy 
of Design. 

Wooded hill-sides, all blazing with gold and crimson and 
russet browns — fields sloping gently downward, their stone 
fences draped with blood-red vines and clusters of brilliant 
sumac, and a broad, blue, shining river, reflecting the cloud- 
less firmament in the intervening valley — one might almost 
fancy the v/orld to be a picture, painted in colors which should 
never fade! 

But the Reverend Milo Gresham saw none of these lovely 
things, as he sat in the shadow of the faded moreen hangings, 
with a book in his lap and a pile of papers on the desk before 
him. 

He was a fine-looking, frank-faced man of about five-and- 
thirty, with fine, soft hair, worn bald on the top of his head, 
and mild blue eyes, while a pair of spectacles, perched on his 
Roman nose, bore silent witness to the near-sightedness which 
so often accompanies deep scholarship and close study. 

His dress was worn and shabby, and glossy at the seams, 
while more than one elaborately executed darn ornamented 
the more prominent places; his slippers, once black velvet, 
worked in a bouquet of dazzling silk flowers, were threadbare 
and colorless, with little white spots rubbed at the toes; and 
his shirt, though white as snow, was evidently seeing its last 
days of respectable shirthood. 

Mr. Gresham was one of those men — not by any means 
rare — who, notwithstanding a model character, high Intel- 


6 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


lectual cultivation, and a brain far beyond the average power 
and capacity, are still failures in the world. 

At twenty, his friends had foreseen a brilliant career for 
him; at twenty-five, they had wondered why Milo Gresham 
was not doing more to distinguish himself; at thirty, he had 
somehow settled down into patient, plodding obscurity, with a 
wife and a flock of little ones, preaching mild sermons in an 
out-of-the-way parish, and eking out his pitiful salary by 
taking pupils to educate, and by ‘‘ doing translations and 
making indexes for a publishing firm, who paid him very 
poorly and complimented him very highly. 

This was Mr. Gresham, who sat in his shabby little study, 
where the pattern was long ago trodden out of the Brussels 
carpet, and the chairs and tables mended in more ways, and 
more ingenious ones than the Patent Oflice ever dreamed of. 

As he turned over the leaves of the big lexicon, with a pen 
between his teeth, and a considerate sort of frown contracting 
his brows, the door opened, and a pretty, fair-faced little 
woman entered, with a paper in her hand. 

My dear,^’ said Mrs. Gresham, for it was she, ‘‘ the 
butcher^s bill has just come in.^^ 

‘‘ My dear,^^ rejoined her husband, it seems to me that 
the butcher^s bill is always coming in!^^ 

It is a month since we paid it,^^ she rejoined. 

My dear, it was only the day before yesterday!” he re- 
monstrated. 

That was the grocer ^s bill.” 

Oh, the grocer’s bill, was it? Never mind — they all be- 
long to the same generic family, and a troublesome race they 
are. How much is it, my dear?” 

Seventeen dollars and thirty-three cents. Have you got 
the money?” 

The Eeverend Milo rumpled his soft, thin hair with his 
white, scholarly fingers in perplexity. 

“ No, Selina, 1 haven’t,” was the answer. 

Then what are we to do?” she asked, querulously. 

“ My dear, I would suggest that you tell the man to wait,” 
answered her husband. 

“ I did, Milo; but he says he has accounts to settle, and — ” 

‘‘ He always has, according to his own relation,” said Mr. 
Gresham, somewhat bitterly. ‘‘ However, 1 don’t suppose we 
ought to blame the poor fellow for wanting what is righteously 
his own.” 

‘‘ Then,” again urged his wife, “ what are we to do?” 

1 hardly know,” said the Eev. Mr. Gresham, with a face 


IDA CH A loner’s HEART. 


7 


of ludicrous uncertainty, unless we leave off eating meat 
altogether. I have always inclined to the theory that the 
Brahminical mode of life was healthful in the extreme!” 

“But there are the boys!” said Mrs. Gresham. 

Mr. Gresham’s countenance fell. 

“You speak truth, my love, there are the boys. One may 
starve one’s self, but it is hardly fair to starve one’s pupils! 
Well, tell the man I’ll call round to-morrow morning, and in 
the meantime he had better leave us three pounds of liver.” 

As Mrs. Gresham, charged with this not very satisfactory 
message, left the room at one entrance, the corresponding 
door opposite, which communicated with the garden, opened, 
and three noisy boys rushed in, followed by a little cherry- 
checked girl. 

“ Uncle! uncle!” roared the eldest, who was a dark-browed 
boy of fifteen, the adopted child of the good clergyman, whose 
only legacies seemed to be penniless orphans, “ Monty’s been 
knocking over my Kobinson Crusoe palisades!” 

“ Papa,” chimed in a brown-faced, sandy-haired boy, a year 
or so younger, “ it wasn’t any such thing! Geoff knocked 
’em over himself running at me with a big stick, and one of 
the poles fell on Angie’s head, and raised a lump as big as an 
egg.'" 

“What a story!” cried the first, breathless and eager. 
“ Monty Gresham, — ” 

“ Well, then, just feel of the lump!” and little Angeline, 
hardly knowing in her bewilderment whether to laugh or cry, 
was pushed forward to her father’s knee. 

“ My dear,” said Mr. Gresham, smoothing down her curly 
head, “ are you hurt?” 

“No, papa,” said the four-year-old. “ It frightened me a 
little, though. ” 

“There!” cried Geoffrey Moreland; “I told you so, Mr. 
Make-mischief.” 

“Papa!” roared the belligerent Monty, “ain’t he to stop 
calling me names?” 

“ Angie,” said Mr. Gresham, “ go to your mother. Little 
girls should be at their patch- work Geoffrey, is your Latin 
exercise prepared?” 

“No, uncle; I — ” 

“Begin, then, at once,” said Mr. Gresham, in a voice of 
that mild authority that not even the most rebellious of his 
pupils ever ventured to oppose. “ Montmorenci, you have 
three pages in algebra to study — are they finished?” 


8 It) A chaloker’s heart. 

“Papa, 1 thought Td wait until afternoon before 1 done 
them.^^ 

Done them, Montmorenci!^^ repeated his father, with a 
slight elevation of the eyebrows. 

''Did them, papa,^^ said the boy, laughing, and coloring. 
“But that^s the way Harry Tudor talks, and I canT help 
catching his words now and then.'^^ 

“ You must watch yourself, Monty, said the father. 
“ And as for the lessons, remember that now is the accepted 
time. Go to your desk. Harry Tudor, call James to his 
lessons; it^s past nine."^^ 

Harry Tudor, a thickset, curly-haired boy of nine, turned 
reluctantly to the desk in the corner, with lingering tlioughts 
of the fish-lines and tackle that were concealed under his 
copy-book. 

“ James has gone to the post-office, sir,’^ he said. “ Him 
and Eleanor went — 

“Harry!^^ 

“ Eleanor and him, sir,^^ faltered Harry, not quite certain 
as to wherein his error of speech lay. 

“ He^ my boy — he is the nominative to the verb in this 
case,^^ admonished Mr. Gresham. 

“Yes, sir. He, sir — he has went — 

Geoffrey burst into a peal of laughter. Montmorenci looked 
up from his desk with a smile. Harry Tudor turned very red. 

“Geoffrey,’^ said Mr. Gresham, reprovingly, “ Harry^s 
grammar is no worse than your manners. He is improving — 
I wish I could say the same of you. Get your books, Harry. 

The door opened at this moment, and a tall, pretty girl of 
twelve years old came in, leading a child of six — Eleanor 
Gresham and her little brother. 

“Two newspapers, papa, and a letter, she cried, as she 
laid the treasure on the study-table. “ Eun to your lessons, 
Jamie 

The Eeverend Mr. Gresham laid down his pen with a sigh. 
To him, a letter was simply the representative of a pressing dun 
or an unpaid bill. For with all his conscientiousness, and his 
earnest endeavors to discharge all honest liabilities, the Rev- 
erend Mr. Gresham was yearly getting more and more behind- 
hand with the world. 

He broke the seal mechanically, while little Jamie climbed 
on to his seat, and opened a big atlas, v/here the picture of the 
world was several times larger than his owji golden head. 

But, to the clergyman's surprise, the missive was no im- 


IDA CHA donee’s HEAKT. 


9 


perative request for money, no reminder of unsettled bills or 
neglected financial transactions. 

Once — twice lie read it over, and then rose and went into 
the room where Mrs. Gresham was paring apples for the 
modest family dessert of baked dumplings. 

“ My dear,^’ he said, “ 1 have just received a very singular 
letter — singular, and yet quite gratifying.’’ 

Dear me!” cried Mrs. Gresham, dropping the yellow 
apple she held between the finger and thumb of her left 
hand, what can it be?” 

“I will read it for you,” said Mr. Gresham, unfolding the 
letter complacently, “ and you can judge for yourself. It is 
dated New Yoj^ City, October 14th, and begins thus: 

‘‘^Eeyeeend Milo Gresham — Dear Sir , — The fame of 
your exceedingly well-regulated family school has induced me, 
a stranger in this country, to place under your charge a young 
friend, whose education, although not entirely neglected, needs 
judicious care and thoughtful supervision. I am quite igno- 
rant of terms, etc., but as I should wish the wardrobe, inci- 
dental expenses, and such other liabilities of my friend to be 
under your care, I inclose what would seem an appropriate 
provision for the first year’s allowance — also a sum of fifty 
dollars to pay your expenses to the Hollisforde Hotel, New 
York, where your pupil will be awaiting you. 1 regret ex- 
ceedingly that circumstances place it out of my power to ac- 
company your new charge myself to Deepdale, but hope you 
will consider this another proof of the entire confidence I re- 
pose in you. 

“ ‘ Please come as promptly as is practicable. Inquire for 
Eoom 16, Hollisforde Hotel. And believe me, 

“ ‘ Yours very truly, Pierre L’Epinarde.’ 

And this, my dear,” said Mr. Gresham, enjoying the 
pleased surprise of his wife’s face, ‘‘ is the inclosure. 

He shook a narrow, rustling slip of paper over her head. 

Not a five-hundred-dollar bill?” 

Yes, my dear Selina, a five-hundred-dollar bill! and there 
is a fifty besides, inclosed, as my correspondent thoughtfully 
remarks, for expenses. ” 

“ Oh, Milo!” cried the little woman, “ I am so glad! It 
was not five minutes ago I was thinking how nice it would be 
if you could some way manage to get a pupil or two more, and 
this is so nobly generous. ” 

“ It is, indeed, my dear,” said Mr. Gresham. “ Five hun- 
dred dollars! and 1 never have had but three hundred. Per- 


10 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


haps/^ he added, conscientiously, “1 ought to state to this 
Mr. L^Epinarde that my terms are less exorbitant. 

“ I think not, Milo. He himself volunteers it.^’ 

‘‘ That is very true; and as the Scriptures say, ‘ The laborer 
is worthy of his hire,^ I will endeavor rightly to discharge the 
responsibility now placed in my hands to the best of my 
ability. L^Epinarde — it sounds like a foreign name.''^ 

‘‘ I should think he must be a French gentleman,'’^ sug- 
gested Mrs. Gresham. ‘‘How fortunate it is, Milo, that you 
speak French!^' 

“It is probable, my dear, that Mr. L^Epinarde is quite 
conversant with the English tongue, as there are no idiomatic 
peculiarities in his letter. My dear, if yoiiii^ will pack my 
valise, I will go at once. Geoffrey and Eleanor can take 
charge of the younger children temporarily, and I shall easily 
be back in a day or two with this welcome addition to our 
little family circle.'’^ 

Mrs. Gresham looked at the clock — it was ten, and the train 
which passed through Deepdale was due at twenty minutes 
after eleven. 

“ 1 wish your shirts were in a little better order, she said, 
nervously, as she untied the bib-apron worn to protect her 
faded calico dress from culinary contact. 

“ I dare say they will do very well,^^ said Mr. Gresham, 
serenely. 

“ And your best coat — I sponged it last week, but the 
seams show very badly. 

“ An old coat is no disgrace, Selina.^'' 

“ Oh, Milo!’^ said the poor little woman, with a mist before 
her blue eyes — the blue eyes that had been so bright and 
seductive fifteen years ago, when she and Milo had fancied the 
world^s path to be all roses, “ how hard it is to be poor!^^ 

“We shall be rich, my dear, if we have many more such 
pupils as this,^^ said her husband, cheerily patting her cheek. 
“ So get the shirts ready, and if Noakes troubles you any more 
with his bill, tell him weTe coming into our fortune.''^ 

Great was the excitement in the family school-room when 
the news of Mr. Gresham^s very unusual journey was com- 
municated to them. 

“Papa, I wish I could go with you,^^ said Montmorenci, 
looking envyingly on the valise that was to be his father^s 
traveling companion. 

“You must stav and take care of mamma, my boy,^^ said 
Mr. Gresham. “ I shall bring back a companion for you, I 
hope, whom you will like. 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


11 


“ Ain^t it jolly?’^ cried Monty, balancing himself, first on 
one foot and then on the other. ‘‘ I wonder how old he is?’^ 

“A frog-eating Frenchy,’^ cried Geoffrey, disdainfully. 
“ I know I sha^n^t like him!^^ 

“ Papa,^^ said the truthful Eleanor, who was on her knees, 
tying the strings of Jaiiiie^^ dusty little shoes, “ do you sup- 
pose he is a Eoman Catholic?^^ 

“ I don^t know anything about it, my daughter, was the 
abstracted reply, as Mr. Gresham put away the scattered 
papers in his desk. 

There^s no end of frogs down in the swamp lots,^^ said 
Harry Tudor, who had been reflecting on Geoffrey's observa- 
tion. 

Won't we have larky times catching 'em? Must we call 
him monsieur, Mr. Gresham?" 

“ Boys, boys!" remonstrated the clergyman, as he tried to 
fasten the lock of an overpacked valise, ‘‘ I wish you would 
leave off asking foolish questions. I depend upon you to make 
great progress during my absence, and 1 trust you will receive 
this strange boy, doubtless a foreigner by birth, with kindness 
and cordiality, which will tend to make him forget his loneli- 
ness. " 

“ Papa," said Jamie, wistfully, “ I'll give him half my kite- 
string." 

“ Papa," lisped Angie, standing on tiptoe to get hold of her 
father's little finger, “he shall have my string of blue glass 
beads. ' ’ 

“ Oh, get along," said Montmorenci, contemptuously; “ he 
won't care for such small fry as you! I'll show him the cave 
down under the old quarry rocks, and Geoff will let him read 
the new ‘Eobinson Crusoe,’ after Eleanor gets a cover sewed 
on. That’s what'll suit him if he's worth anything." 

The whole family stood on the porch, watching Mr. Gresh- 
am's departing footsteps, as he strode down the walk, carry- 
ing in one hand a valise, in the other a green gingham um- 
brella. 

“ Don't papa look nice?" said Eleanor. “ I wish he could 
afford to wear his best clothes every day." 

“ I wish I and Geoffrey were going with him," sighed Mont- 
morenci. “ New York must be such a bully place!" 

“ Papa wouldn't like you to use such words as that," said 
Eleanor, reprovingly. 

“ You're only a girl," was the slighting reply. “ I say, 
Geoff, let's go down to the cave, after we've done lessons." 


12 IDA chalonek’s heart. 

Little Angie sat on the step, her dimpled cheek resting on 
one hand. 

“ Eleanor/^ she said, softly, when the other children had 
all gone in, and tlie two sisters were alone in the bright, Octo- 
ber sunshine, “ I couldn’t go down into the wet swamp to help 
the boys catch frogs, but if the French boy really likes such 
things, there’s an awful fat toad in mamma’s flower-bed.” 

Eleanor burst out into a merry laugli, as she caught the 
little child up in her arms, and ran with her into the house, 
as if she had been a large kitten. 

“ It’s only Cousin Geoff’s nonsense,” she cried, kissing the 
flushed, rosy cheek that was pressed against her own; “but 
you’re a darling little thing, Angie, and if the French boy 
don’t like you, he’ll have very poor taste, that’s all I’ve got 
to say.” 


CHAPTER II. 

IDA CH ALOKER. 

A RAILWAY journey nowadays is no particular novelty to 
most people, but Mr. Gresham’s secluded life had rendered 
him an exception to the ordinary rule. Every mile of the way 
was full of interest and incident to the simple-hearted gentle- 
man. The scenery, the little crowds at every station, the faces 
of his fellow-travelers, were all productive of infinite amuse- 
ment to him, and he was sorry rather than otherwise when 
they reached the terminus of their journey. Other people 
might complain of dust, heat, uneven rails, and cramped 
seats, but to the Reverend Milo Gresham the journey was 
one long treat. 

“ I really wish I could have afforded to bring Geoffrey and 
Montmorenci with me,” thought the kind-hearted clergyman. 
“ They could hardly have failed to be benefited by the varied 
contemplation of human nature, which — Hey — halloo! What’s 
the matter?” 

A little crowd had gathered round the honest gentleman’s 
rear, as he thus soliloquized; and a policeman stepped for- 
ward, with a yellow silk pocket-handkerchief in his hand. 

This yours, sir?” 

Mr. Gresham put his hand into his pocket. It was empty! 

‘‘It is mine, sir,” he said, with puzzled courteousness; 
“ though how it came into your possession I am at a loss to 
conjecture.” 

“ It’s only Slippery Bill, sir,” said the policeman, with a 
shake of the bundle of rags which seemed to be writhing and 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


13 


twisting beneath his grasp. Picked your pocket, sir. Ex- 
cuse me, but, as you seem to be from the country, I’d advise 
you to keep a trifle sharper lookout for your property.’^ 

“ 1 am obliged to you, sir/^ said Mr. Gresham, lifting his 
hat, but at the same time wondering how the policeman had 
discovered that he was from the agricultural districts. “ And 
as for the poor boy, pray let me intercede in his behalf. 1 
dare say he will not repeat the offense if you — 

The policeman grinned broadly as the small victim howled 
out vehement protestations of ‘‘ never doing it again. 

‘‘ Bless your heart, sir,’^ he said, “ he’s been doiiP of it ever 
since he was born, and heTl keep it up until he’s hanged! 
Stop your bellerin’, you!” to the boy; ‘‘you’ll have time 
enough to holler when you’re on the Island.” 

And Mr. Gresham went on his way, pondering sadly on the 
depravity of human nature as evinced in the character of 
“ Slippery Bill.” 

It was a long walk to the Hollisforde Hotel, and a weari- 
some one. The burning city pavements, shaken with the 
thunder of omnibus wheels, and reeking with dust, were not 
like the green paths which led through the sylvan meadows at 
Deepdale; and honest Mr. Gresham felt a painful conscious- 
ness of being in every one’s way, as he dodged backward and 
forward before the current of the hurrying throng. 

“ Everybody seems to be in such haste here,” thought the 
clergyman, wiping his heated brow with the providentially 
rescued pocket-handkerchief. “ Ah, dear me! the profanity 
.of the hack-drivers is quite shocking; and every other person 
one meets with would appear to be a beggar. I have given 
away all my small change already, and I am not altogether 
certain, upon second thoughts, that the recipients of my poor 
charity are quite worthy. I wonder if this can be the Hollis- 
forde Hotel? — a magnificent building, truly!” 

The Reverend Mr. Gresham surveyed the glittering marble 
pile, with its abundance of carved ornamentation, and its rows 
on rows of shining windows, white from the effect of the lighted 
stores beneath; it seemed to stand on foundations of light. 

“ I can not be mistaken,” thought the clergyman, as he 
read the name, “ Hollisforde Hotel,” in plain marble let- 
ters over the porticoed door-way; and turning, not unwillingly, 
from the bustling throng which occupied the pavement, he 
entered the large, long room, paved with blocks of colored 
marble, and now lighted up with chandeliers, which seemed 
like clusters of miniature suns all ablaze. 


14 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEART. 


Boom No. ]6/^ said Mr. Gresham, to a servant, if you 
please. 1 am expected. 

The mail looked curiously at the quaint figure which stood, 
valise and umbrella in hand, in the middle of the room; but 
the half smile which hovered round his lips was at once 
checked by the calm, dignified look of the stranger^s mild 
eyes. 

“ 1 will send some one up with you, sir, directly, he said, 
“ if you will be kind enough to wait a minute. 

Mr. Gresham sat down on the velvet-cushioned settee, 
which extended along the wall, put his valise by the side of 
him, and rested his crossed hands, pilgrim-like, on the crooked 
handle of his umbrella, until a tall young man came to him. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,^^ he said. “ Are you the gentle- 
man that was expected at Boom 16 — the Beverend Mr. Gresh- 
am?’^ 

“ That is my name,^^ said the clergyman, rising. 

“We were told to show you upstairs, sir, directly on your 
arrival. The young person is waiting for jou/^ 

“ Ah— indeed— all right. 

Mr. Gresham followed his guide up two flights of wide 
stairs, carpeted so softly that the footfall was quite inaudible 
in its golden-brown pile, and along a broad corridor, with 
numbered doors on either side, until they came to “ No. 16,^^ 
in small, silver-plated letters. 

With a bow and a motion of the hand toward this door, the 
tall young man withdrew, Mr. Gresham thanking him with a 
precise, old-fashioned courtesy for his kindness, as he knocked 
softly. 

There was no reply at first, but on a second and somewhat 
louder application of the clergyman's knuckles, a voice from 
within called out: 

“ Come in!^^ 

Mr. Gresham, in accordance with these words, opened the 
door and entered. 

It was a large room, frescoed in panels, and illumined with 
chandeliers and fire-light, for, mild as was the evening, the 
grate was heaped with a ruby-red mass of burning coals, and 
on a velvet sofa drawn up in front of the blaze sat, or rather 
reclined, a girl of ten years old among the folds of a gold- 
fringed shawl of some gorgeous Eastern manufacture. She 
was dark, with large, soft eyes, dark curls, which hung over 
her shoulders, and cheeks where the vivid blood seemed fairly 
to shine through the transparent skin in peach-like crimson. 
Her dress was peculiar, and seemed strangely inappropriate 


IDA CHALONER's heart. 


15 


for a child of her years — it was of black velvet, belted around 
the waisfc, and gold bracelets clasped her dark, slender arms, 
while a double strand of gold beads encircled her throat. A 
book lay in her lap, and one cheek wa’S pillowed on her hand, 
as she looked composedly toward the door, like a graceful 
tableau out of some Eastern romance. 

Mr. Gresham stared in surprise. 

“ Come said the child, as he stood hesitatingly on the 
threshold; “ Fve said ‘ come in ^ twice already. 

‘‘ I beg — I beg your pardon,'’^ said the embarrassed clergy- 
man; I must have mistaken the number of the room.^^ 

‘‘ ~No/’ said the child, ‘‘ 1 don’t think you have mistaken 
the room. Are you Mr. Gresham?’’ 

Yes.” 

It is all right, then; I am Ida.” 

Mr. Gresham was beginning to wonder vaguely whether he 
was beginning to lose his senses, or whether the pretty child 
before him was herself slightly crazed. 

“ And who is Ida?” he demanded. 

She fixed her large dark eyes inquiringly upon him. 

‘‘ Ida — Ida Chaloner,” she repeated; “ the child who is to 
be educated. Didn’t Mr. Pierre tell you my name?” 

Mr. Gresham sat down on a chair, totally bewildered, and 
once more wiped his brow with the yellow silk pocket- 
handkerchief. 

“ I — I thought you were a boy!” he said, in a sort of mild 
despair. 

Ida’s laugh, as hearty and child-like as her appearance was 
strange and Oriental, reassured the good clergyman that it 
was really a human creature who sat before him among the 
golden fringes of the silken shawl, and no elf or brownie from 
the world of the unreal, and he himself could but smile at the 
oddity of his mistake. 

“ Did Mr. Pierre say I was a boy?” she asked, after a 
minute. 

Why, no — not exactly,” said Mr. Gresham, taking his 
pocket-book out and extracting the letter in question from its 
folds; “but somehow I received the impression that — I see, 
now, he simply mentioned you as a young friend. Dear, 
dear!” he added, looking about him, “ this is very strange 
indeed; quite unaccountable, upon my word! My dear! where 
is Mr. L’Epinarde?” 

“ Do you mean Mr. Pierre? He has gone.” 

“ Gone where?” 


16 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


“ I don^fc know/^ said the child, indifferently. ‘‘ To Pajris, 
1 suppose, or Eome, or some of those places. 

Mr. Gresham’s eyes opened wider than ever. 

When did he go?” ' 

“ This morning.” 

And left you here alone?” 

The little girl nodded with equanimity. 

“ Why not? I am used to being alone.” 

‘‘ But you are such a child.” 

I am ten years old and three months.” 

‘‘ Did he leave no word?” 

“No — what word should he leave? He has told me Mr. 
Gresham would be here in a day or two to take me to school, 
and I was to go with him.” 

“ This is really the most remarkable proceeding of which 1 
was ever cognizant!” muttered Mr. Gresham, quite uncon- 
scious that he was speaking aloud. “ Shall I take her or shall 
1 leave her? I must take her — the five-huiidred-dollar bill 
leaves no alternative, but — My dear,” he said, turning once 
more to the figure on the sofa, “ what is Mr. L’Epinarde’s 
address?” 

“lam sure I don’t know,” said Ida, indifferently. 

“ My dear child! and where are you to direct when you write 
to him?” 

“ But I never write to him.” 

“ Is he your uncle?” 

“No.” 

“ Your brother, perhaps?” 

“ He is no relation at all.” 

Mr. Gresham drew along breath, which was half a sigh and 
half a groan. The riddle was growing more complicated every 
instant. 

“ Then how did it happen that he brought you here?” 

“ He always brings me to school. He brought me to Paris 
when I was only four years old. I always do as he says.” 

“ Do you like him?” 

“No,” said Ida, with a curious light in her deep eyes; “ I 
hate him. ” 

“My child!” 

“ I do!” persisted Ida; “ and 1 believe he hates me.” 

“ But where is your father?” 

“ I haven’t a father, nor a mother, nor any relations at all. ” 

“My poor little girl!” — Mr. Gresham’s mild hand rested 
compassionately on the dark silken curls that flowed so softly 
over the little round shoulders — “ tell me about your life.” 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


17 


said Ida, almost impatiently: “ I haven'^t anything 
to tell. I have been at school in ISiew Orleans and in Paris, 
and now I am to go with you.^^ 

‘‘ Where is your home?’^ 

Home!’’ repeated Ida, with something of a puzzled look; 
‘‘oh, anywhere it happens. Here just now; in Paris, last 
month, at Madame de Bassompierre’s!” 

Mr. Gresham looked at the strange creature, and thought of 
his own cherished little daughters in their home-nest, sur- 
rounded with protecting love and ever-increasing tenderness, 
and a sentiment of pity crept into his heart. 

“ Ida,” said he, “ yours is a strange story.” 

“ Everything is strange in this world, it seems to me,” she 
answered, carelessly; “but I am used to belong to nobody, 
and as long as I have plenty of money I don’t care. See!” 

She opened a little purse which she drew from the folds of 
her dress, and showed the glimmer of gold pieces behind its 
net-work. 

“ More than two hundred dollars of money,^’ she said, 
gleefully. 

“You had better let me keep it for you,” said Mr. Gresh- 
am, astonished to see so much money intrusted to the hands 
of a child. 

“ No,” said Ida, resolutely, returning the gold to its hiding- 
place; “ I will take care of it myself; no one shall take it 
away from me.^’ 

“ Be very careful of it, then, my child.” Ida shrugged her 
shoulders rather scornfully. 

“ I have taken care of money before now; more than this,” 
she said. “ I don’t mind things when 1 have money; but 
sometimes Mr. Pierre has forgotten to j)ay the bills — oh! for a 
long time, and people have been so cross, and I have been so 
miserable!” 

“But if this Mr. Pierre — by whom, I suppose, you mean 
Mr. L’Epinarde — is no relation, what claim have you upon 
him?” 

“ I don’t kjiow,” answered the child; “ I think you ask a 
great many questions.” 

Mr. Gresham could not but acknowledge to himself that this 
remark was founded in truth. 

“ Well, Ida,” he said, after a few minutes of grave thought, 
during which Ida opened her book, and resumed its pictured 
pages once more, as if she had been quite alone, “ I will take 
you home with me and do my best to fulfill the onerous charge 
with which Mr. L’Epinarde has intrusted me. But, as we can 


18 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


not go until to-morrow morning, we must wait patiently. By 
the way, how did you come here? From what place, T mean?^^ 

‘‘We came from Liverpool in a steamer, last week, but we 
stopped in some other city first — Boston, 1 believe, and Mr. 
Pierre left me here only this morning. 

“ Do you like it here?^^ 

“ Yes,’^ said Ida; “ I should like to stay here always. Mr. 
Gresham, will you ring that bell? I have not dined yet; 1 
want my dinner. 

“ Dinner at seven o^clock?’^ 

“We always dine late,^^ said Ida, nonchalantly. 

Mr. Gresham pulled the bell-tassel accordingly, and pres- 
ently a servant appeared. 

“ What shall I order, my dear?’^ said Mr. Gresham; “ what 
would you like? Some bread and milk, or a little cold chicken! 
or — 

“ Bread and milk, cold chicken! that is for babies !^^ said 
the child, throwing aside the folds of the shawl, and sitting 
upright. “I will give my own orders.’^ Then, turning to 
the man, she calmly said: “ Some soup Julienne, mon gar^on, 
and some quails or ortolans, roasted, and a pie or tart, 
meringue, with some Neapolitan ice for dessert. DonT forget 
celery, and olives, and a bottle of champagne, and grapes or 
peaches, it donT matter which, with the dessert. 

“ Ida!^^ said Mr. Gresham, who had sat appalled at this 
deliberately enunciated order, “ you must not drink cham- 
pagne!^’ 

“ Must not?” 

Ida’s cheeks glowed scarlet, and the tip of her little slip- 
pered foot patted itself ominously upon the carpet. 

“ W^ho say must not to me? I am a Chalouer, and the 
Chaloners are not slaves!” 

“ But, my child, it is not good for you.” 

“ I don’t care whether it is good or not. I like it — and I 
am going to have what I like.” 

Mr. Gresham, internally convinced that this little foreign- 
born creature had not been very practically brought up, re- 
solved to do his best to uproot these weeds of character, but 
not at this moment. Once won by gentleness she might, per- 
haps, be remodeled at will, but if her wayward affections were 
estranged now, it might be a life-long mistake. 

“ Ida,” he said, gently, “ I do not wish to constrain you in 
any respect; I merely advise you. Do as you please to-night. ” 

“Will you dine with me?” asked the child, in as dignified 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 19 

a style as a queen might have assumed in asking an embas- 
sador to partake of her hospitality. 

Thank you/^ said Mr. Gresham, I will order a cup of 
tea and a beefsteak; I do not fancy your wines and your for- 
eign dishes, my dear.’^ 

‘‘ Ah,^^ said Ida, looking dreamily into the fire, you have 
never lived in Paris, nor dined at Les Trois Preres.^^ 

My little girl,’’ said Mr. Gresham, “do you know that 
you talk very strangely for a child?’ ^ 

“ I am not a child,” said Ida; “ that is, not in some things. 
I am not like the little girls I used to see at Madame de Bas- 
sompierre's. How should I be? They have parents to take 
care of them. I have to fight my own way.” 

“ But you will be a child again when you come to my home, 
I hope.” 

“ People don’t go backward in their lives,” she answered, 
shrewdly. “ Are there many little girls in your school?” 

“It is hardly what you have been accustomed to consider 
as a school,” he answered. “I have two little daughters — 
Eleanor, who is twelve, and Angeline, who is four; and two 
little boys and a nephew. Then there is another boy who is 
being educated with my children.” 

“ Is that all?” 

“Yes. ” 

“ Is your wife nice?” 

“ I think so,” said Mr. Gresham, with a smile. “ She will 
try to take a mother’s place to you, Ida, if you will let her.” 

Ida Chaloner’s reply was quite unexpected. 

“ But I shall not let her.” 

“ Ida,” reproved Mr. Gresham, gravely. 

“ I don’t want a mother. Madame de Bassompierre always 
said she was a mother to her pupils, and so did Mrs. Pinkney, 
in New Orleans, and they were both — oh, they were cats 

Ida hissed out the last word between her set teeth as Mr. 
Gresham had never yet heard it pronounced. 

The good man looked disturbed. 

“ Ida,” he said, “ we will not talk about these things now. 
Time will settle them all. Here comes your dinner. I will 
order mine, and you must retire early, for we have a long 
journey before us for to-morrow.” 

“ I never go to bed early,” said Ida, dipping her spoon 
daintily in the soupe a la Julienne, “ Twelve o’clock is a 
very good hour. ” 

Mr. Gresham looked despairingly at the little figure in the 
gold jewels and the velvet dress. Of all the pupils who had 


20 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART: 


ever been domesticated at Deepdale, this one, he foresaw, was 
likely to be the most intractable and wayward. 

“ Poor child, he said, almost in a whisper, “ it is plain to 
see that you have been brought up fatherless and motherless. 

“ But you needn^t sit up for me,^^ said Ida, rather patroniz- 
ingly. “ You look tired — and I doiPt mind being alone. 
There is a very obliging chamber-maid here on this floor, and 
I can ring if I want anything. Waiter, these olives are not 
fresh. Take them away, and bring some more.^^ 

Mr. Gresham, his own simple meal soon concluded, sat and 
watched the little velvet-robed lassie sipping her champagne, 
eating the fragrant, many-colored ices, and varying the order 
of things by now and then a grape, or a slice of a peach, un- 
easy in his mind, yet scarcely venturing to make any further 
remonstrance. 

“We shall reform all this after awhile,’^ he thought, hope- 
fully; “ and I almost wish I had not undertaken this charge. 

Y'hen the dishes were removed, and Ida Chaloner was once 
more nestled on her sofa, Mr. Gresham endeavored by gentle 
and judicious questioning to elicit from her the particulars of 
her brief life-time. But of her own persoiiality she seemed to 
know almost nothing except her name and age, and the fact 
that “Mr. Pierre had always exercised a sort of supervision 
over her, quite unaccompanied, however, with aught resem- 
blijig interest or affection. 

Mr. Gresham sat confounded. The idea that a child could 
live to be ten years old in utter ignorance of hei own birth,, 
origin, or jDarentage, and be floating round the world like a, 
stray waif, with no definite hold or claim on any one, seemed, 
to him so visionary and improbable that, had another told him, 
of the circumstance, instead of his corning under his own per- 
sonal observation, he would have scoffed at it as a mere fabri- 
cation of fancy. Once or twice he looked up at Ida, sitting- 
before the fire with one gold-banded arm thrown over the 
curve of the sofa, and the dark, soft curls lying on her shoul- 
ders, and asked himself whether, after all, this was not a 
dream — whether he should not wake up presently and find 
himself sitting among the lexicons and encyclopedias at his 
study-table in Deepdale. 

“ Yerily,^^ pondered the Eeverend Milo Gresham, “truth 
is stranger than fiction; and I seem to have come in contact 
with one of the strangest of all the truths.’^ 

Wearied out and drowsy though he was, he persisted in sit- 
ting up until the French time-piece on the marble mantel had 
chimed twelve, and Miss Chaloner had graciously consented 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 31 

that the chamber-maid should be rung for to conduct her to 
her own apartment. 

“ I am not sleepy/^ said Ida, as she wrapped the gorgeous 
Eastern shawl round her small form; ‘‘ but I dare say you^re 
tired, Mr. Gresham, and Til not keep you up any later. Good- 
night. Eli be up to breakfast at nine. 

“ But, Ida, the train leaves at eight. 

She pouted out her cherry lips. 

“How tiresome! Then I suppose we must breakfast 
earlier.^^^ 

“ At seven, at the latest,’^ he answered. 

“ Seven, tlien,^^ said Ida; “ I dare say I can be up for 
once.^^ 

Mr. Gresham thought of the six-o^clock breakfasts of the 
household at Deepdaie, and wondered within himself if his 
brisk little wife could ever induce this strange being to con- 
form to the ways of their quiet, regular life. • 

“ At all events/^ he said, mentally, “ we are bound to 
make the trial. 


CHAPTER III. 

MONSIEUR PIERRE l’eCHELLE. 

While the Reverend Milo Gresham was endeavoring to 
persuade himself that Ida Chaloner and her strange surround- 
ings were actual reality, and not the idle phantasms of an 
overtasked fancy — while the fire-light was mirroring itself in 
the amber contents of the slender-stemmed champagne-glass, 
and the capricious fingers of the child were culling out the 
bluest grapes and the rosiest peaches as she lingered, with 
Sybarite enjoyment over her dessert, a far different, yet not 
dissimilar, scene was transpiring in the suite of rooms directly 
underneath. 

Larger rooms, more elegantly furnished, and, probably far 
more expensive; curtains of dark- green velvet, looped up with 
immense gold tassels, concealed the lace-draped windows; 
deep sofas filled the embrasures, and a carpet of deep green, 
without pattern or device, was bordered with a narrow ara- 
besque of gold color at the sides of the room. The furniture 
was all of polished rosewood, upholstered in the same material 
as the curtains; and on the marble hearth a low, clear fire was 
burning, guarded by a steel fender. In the middle of the 
room, where the shaded drop-light of emerald glass cast a vivid 
circlet of brightness — leaving the rest of the apartment in a 
green semi-twilight, such as one sometimes finds at noonday 


22 


IDA CHALONKR^S HEART. 


in the shaded aisles of dense-foliaged woods — a table was 
spread, apparently with dessert — wines of red and topaz color, 
in decanters of cut-glass, on silver stands; fruits, such as were 
almost worth their weight in gold at that season; silver baskets 
of tropical nuts; and pink water-ices in crystal chalices, sur- 
rounded a bouquet of hot-house flowers, whose perfume made 
the air oppressively sweet; and, on a stand beyond, a silver ice- 
pail, with the wired neck of one or two bottles protruding 
beyond the glittering lumps that filled it, betokened a wise 
provision for future wants. 

One of the sofas was drawn up in front of this table, and a 
dark, handsome man was stretched idly among its cushions, 
dallying with the array of dainfies, very much as the velvet- 
robed child upstairs was doing at the self-same moment. 

That is to say, he was handsome, as far as straight, regular 
features, and a certain gross animal beauty of outline go; but 
there was a hard, cruel glitter in the coal-black eyes, and a 
curve of the full red lips that would have repelled the physiog- 
nomist. His very actions partook of these characteristic ele- 
ments; there was a certain repressed ferocity in the way he 
severed with a silver knife the slices of pine-apple, and rolled 
beneath his tongue the wines he tasted. His dress, rich and 
plain, was in the most perfect taste, and his white, well-shaped 
hands, with slight dimples at the knuckles, were those of a 
gentleman by birth, if not by natural instinct. 

Giuseppe!^’ 

It was a strange voice, low and melodious as a flute, yet 
with an underlying hardness in its clear tone. And as he 
spoke, a man advanced, who had been standing in the shadow 
beyond, with folded arms and an attitude of waiting attention. 

Monsieur!^^ 

‘‘You are a scoundrel, Giuseppe/^ leisurely remarked the 
gentleman, extracting a bit of Madeira nut from its brown, 
wrinkled shell, and moistening it with a draught of the topaz- 
colored wine. 

“ As monsieur pleases, was the answer, spoken with a 
scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders. 

“I doiiT know why I donT discharge you,^’ went on the 
master. “ Certainly it is not for lack of — this sherry is a de- 
gree better than one generally finds in these execrable States — 
of a full knowledge of your demerits. ’’ 

“ Perhaps it is,^’ suggested the servant, “ because monsieur • 
knows that no more faithful slave to his wishes could exist 
than the poor Giuseppe! Money will buy much, but it can 
not buy a heart like this!^’ 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


23 


He touched his breast slightly as he spoke. 

‘‘Stuff, Giuseppe!^^ was the contemptuous reply. “You 
are a born actor. 1 believe you’ll die en tableau one of these 
days.” 

There was no reply, except by a slight drooping of the head, 
as Giuseppe stood quite silent before the glittering table. 

“ So,” went on the master, after a momentary silence, dur- 
ing which he rejected a beautiful peach with a scarcely visible 
blight upon its side, “the old priest from the country has 
come. You saw him yourself, Giuseppe?” 

“ I saw him myself, monsieur.” 

“ 1 wonder what he thinks of the wolf’s cub?” said the 
other, with a low laugh, as if he were mightily diverted within 
himself. “ Upon my word, I should like to hear their dis- 
course!” 

The servant smiled. 

“ It’s a relief to have her off my mind, though,” he added. 
“Mind you’re on hand, Giuseppe, to see them off. I shall 
not feel easy until it is over.” 

“ I shall not fail to execute monsieur’s commands.” 

“ Giuseppe!” 

“ Monsieur?” 

“ Get out of this. I’m tired of your cat-eyes upon me. Set 
the ice-pail close to me, and take yourself off until I ring for 
you.” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

Giuseppe, who moved as softly as a sick-nurse, obeyed his 
master’s commands, and silently withdrew. 

The dark-haired gentleman yawned slightly, as he turned 
on his sofa so that he could look into the bright depths of the 
fire, and listened for an instant. Then he arose, and set the 
door ajar suddenly. 

“ Giuseppe!” 

“ Monsieur?” 

“ What, in the name of all the fiends, are you hanging 
about the door for — eavesdropping?” 

“ A thousand pardons — I fancied that monsieur called.” 

“ I did not call — and you never thought I did. Giuseppe! 
1 have two minds to pitch you down-stairs, for a lying vaga- 
bond, as you are.” 

“ If monsieur chooses to abuse the faithful devotion of one 
who worships him, I, at least, have no word of remonstrance,” 
said the man, with a sort of proud humility. 

“ Get along with you,” said his master, sharply. “ Down- 


24 


IDA CHALOKEK'S heart. 


stairs, 1 say — 1 shall stand here until you are safely out of 
sight. Get along with you, for a treacherous hound. 

His voice, though suppressed, as if he had no mind to be over- 
heard, was one of the in tensest scorn and anger. Nor did he 
close the door as he returned, but left it half open, so that 
from his sofa he could, by the turning of his head, command 
the corridor in front. 

“ Fll not be taken unawares,’^ he muttered, to himself, and 
then drawing from the inner breast-pocket of his coat a large, 
flat pocket-book, or case, he opened it, and began a leisurely 
ection of its contents. 



Gold, notes, jewels, and papers, that little square receptacle 
contained a vast deal that was valuable, and the hard, dark 
eyes seemed to catch a momentary glitter from the reflection 
of the precious stones and coin. Then he replaced it next his 
breast, and lighted a cigarette, which he proceeded to smoke 
with folded arms and head thrown back, in dolce far niente 
fashion, among the velvet cushions of the s*ofa, like some wild 
animal basking serenely in its native jungles. 

He w^as thus lying when a footstep so light and elastic as to 
be quite inaudible, sounded on the carpeted hall without, and 
the figure of a lady paused momentarily in its onward passage, 
as if suddenly arrested by some strange and unexpected sight. 

She was tall and graceful, with a brown dress of some silken 
foreign stuff, and a brown scarf falling loosely about her shoul- 
ders, and plain linen circlets at throat and wrist, relieved only 
by a crimson ribbon bow, yet on her finger blazed a solitaire 
diamond of great value, and there was in her whole carriage 
something almost royal. Not yet thirty years of age, her 
bloom was rich as that of a girl, and no wrinkle marred the 
dazzling purity of brow and cheek, while the masses of golden 
hair that shadowed her oval face were netted back, after the 
picturesque fashion of the day. 

Merciful Father!^^ she ejaculated, as she stood there with 
her hands pressed to her heart. ‘‘ 1 can not be mistaken — it 
is Pierre!’^ 

The next moment she had glided into the room, and stood 
before the man on the sofa. 

Pierre! Pierre L^Echelle!’^ 

He took the cigarette languidly from his full, red lips. 

“ Beatrice! upon my honor this is an unexpecjted pleasure. 
1 had imagined you to be in Florence. 

“ i^nd I fancied 3^011 in Switzerland.^^ 

“ A mutual misunderstanding, it would seem. But perhaps 
you object to smoking?’^ 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


25 


She made a slight disdainful motion of the head. 

“ A most excellent cigarette/^ he said, with a sigh; “but 
to the pleasure of your society, Beatrice, 1 most willingly 
sacrifice it. Will you sit down?^^ 

But she remained standing, the color coming and going on 
her cheek, and her blue eyes growing almost black. 

“ Pierre, how did you come here?^^ she asked. 

“ I might ask the same question of you, madame.^^ 

“You know how and why — you know for what I am eter- 
nally seeking, she cried, passionately. “ Oh, Pierre, have 
you a heart of marble 

“ Don’t get excited, Beatrice; it is very bad for a sanguine 
temperament like yours. How did I come here? On busi- 
ness, which it would be useless to explain to you. 

She drew near to him, and laid the jeweled left hand on his 
shoulder. 

“ Are we friends, Pierre?” she asked, tremulously. 

His square forehead darkened, and a sudden ray flashed 
from beneath his contracted brows. 

“ No.” 

“But, Pierre, are we enemies?” 

His answering smile was cruel as the grin of a hyena. 

“ Are we not? As you please, Beatrice. I declare you 
have grown handsome — you’ll be astonishing us all by mak- 
ing a grand marriage yet. The L’Echelles were always a 
handsome race. ” 

“ Pierre,” pleaded the lady, “ tell me of her — of my baby. 
Where is she? How is she? Does she ever si^eak of me?” 

Pierre L’Echelle poured out a glass of wine and drank it. 

“ Beatrice,” he said, when he had replaced the glass on the 
table, “ what is the use of asking foolish questions?” 

She sunk beside him on the floor, her hands clasped in an 
agonized appeal. 

“ Tell me, Pierre, if it is only one word. Oh, if you knew 
how my heart hungers after her! I know I was wayward and 
willful, but you have punished me enough, surely, (rive her 
back to me, Pierre.” 

His laugh jarred strangely on her pleading voice. 

“ There’s a good deal of the tragic element in that speech, 
Beatrice. Kachel herself could hardly have improved on the 
upward accent of that last sentence.” 

“ Pierre, are you man or devil ?’^ 

“ Man, my dear — man. Of the two, man is incomparably 
the worse, according to my theory.” 

“ But you will not leave me ignorant of her?^^ 


26 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Beatrice/^ said L^Echelle, composedly putting the tips of 
his fingers together, I think you should understand me a lit- 
tle better than this, after the years we have known each other. 
1 swore to be revenged; I am keeping the vow — you yourself 
can testify how faithfully. 

But you have been revenged — yes, a thousand-fold!'^ 

^^Not sufficiently. I am like the mills of the gods ^ — niia 
arnica — that grind slowly, yet exceedingly fine. As to your 
child— 

Tell me of her,^'' gasped the bereaved mother, her hand 
tightening on Pierre L'Echelle's shoulder. 

I can not, Beatrice, if 1 would.*' 

Beatrice's face became as white as ashes. 

“ Pierre! she is not dead.^" 

Yes; she is dead." 

Beatrice fell a senseless heap to the floor, and low, inarticu- 
late moans issued from between her lips. 

Pierre watched her for a moment in silence, while an evil 
smile beamed over his cruel, scarlet lips. 

Presently Beatrice raised her head with a set look of anguish 
in her face that might have melted a heart of adamant. 

‘‘When did she die, Pierre? Why did God deny to my 
mother-heart one instinct to tell me the moment when her 
sweet spirit passed away? Where have they laid her? Surely 
you will tell me now." 

“ 1 said she was dead, Beatrice," the man answered, “ and 
so she is dead, to you, but she is neither coffined nor buried. 
She lives; but you will never see her again." 

A groaning sob broke from the lady's oppressed heart. 

“ jPierre, Pierre, how could you be so cruel? Oh, it was 
worse than the bitterness of death. Then she is alive and 
well?" 

“ 1 have already told you, madame, that I have no informa- 
tion to give. " 

“One clew — one hint! Oh, Pierre, I shall be satisfied with 
so little!" 

He took from his breast the small, square pocket-book, and 
smiled fiendishly in her face. 

“ Do you see this book?" he asked. 

“ Yes!" she answered, breathlessly. 

“ Here are all the clews that exist to the past, present, and 
future of that unhappy child; and here," he deliberately re- 
placed it, “ they shall remain." 

She sprung at him with a vain attempt to wrest the treas- 
ure from his hold. 


IDA CHA loner’s HEART. 


27 


‘‘ Beatrice!” he cried, with a savage sparkle of the eye, “ if 
you attempt that again I will strike you down as if you were a 
log of wood. Do you want to alarm the house?” 

He was holding her at arm’s-length, and eying her with ill- 
concealed ferocity. 

Why should I not?” she cried, passionately, the blue eyes 
blazing, the cheeks crimson, and every muscle under the satin 
skin quivering with excitement. “ What have 1 to lose or 
gain? Why should you not be brought to justice?” 

He stooped and whispered one sentence in her ear; she drew 
back pale and shivering. 

“ Must I endure this still?” she gasped. Pierre, have 
you no mercy or compassion in your heart?” 

Do you know, mia car a, there was murder in those blue 
eyes of yours just now? You are dangero^us, Beatrice — abso- 
lutely dangerous!” 

“ Are not the very animals dangerous, Pierre,” gasped the 
lady, “ when they are robbed of their young? There was 
murder in my heart, God be mercaful to me! if my hand had 
been half so strong as my passion.” 

“ There, there, Beatrice, this is no stage — your fine trans- 
ports are quite thrown away on me.” 

He spoke wearily; she watched him with an eager gaze. 

“ You will tell me nothing more, Pierre?” 

No, 1 shall tell you nothing more.” 

The quiet resolve in his last words checked those that were 
rising to her lips. She turned away, cold, pale, and faint. 

“ Shall I see you to your room?” he questioned, courteous- 
ly. I fear you are not well. ” 

He had risen to his feet, but she repelled him with a motion 
of her hand. 

‘‘ Ah, you prefer solitude; let it be as you please, my dear,” 
he said, sinking luxuriously among his cushions once more. 

He watched her out of the room with immovable com- 
placency. 

‘‘ Ah — h — h!” he muttered to himself, ‘‘ revenge is sweet 
— very sweet. I had no idea of the fiavor of the morsel until 
I found it underneath my tongue. I shall sleep well to-night;, 
yet I must keep an eye on this half-mad woman. If she and 
the little wolf cub should chance to meet — but pooh! she could 
not know the child, in spite of her foolish romance about 
mother-instinct. All that is necessary is for me to keep well 
in the background, and all will go smoothly. If she did but 
dream that the child was even underneath this roof! Madre 
di Dio ! that is the sweetest morsel of it all! 1 would not 


28 


IDA CHALOKER’S heart. 

have missed this episode for half a kingdom! I shall tell 
Giuseppe, when he comes in, to keep an eye on the lady. He 
should be here by twelve o’clock. In the meantime another 
cigarette will enliven the solitude.” 

At twelve o’clock precisely, by the chiming of a tiny time- 
piece on the wall, Giuseppe entered, stepping softly, as was 
his wont. 

“ Monsieur has heard the clock P’"' the man hazarded, after 
a moment or two of respectful silence. There was no answer. 
Giuseppe advanced a pace or two. 

“ Monsieur!’^ His voice was a little louder now. It was 
at twelve that I was to attend 3"ou.’^ 

Still no answer. Giuseppe stepped backward to where a 
servant stood at the door, carrying an ice-pitcher on a tray. 

‘‘ You may bring it in,” he said. “ Monsieur sleeps.” 

The man came in, and as he did so Giuseppe removed the 
green glass shade. The light flooded the room with sudden 
brilliance, and Giuseppe started back, his sullen brow pale 
with a new whiteness. 

“ Monsieur! Oh, Heaven that is above us, he does not 
sleep! Monsieur is dead!” 

It was as Giuseppe, in his blank terror, had said. M. Pierre 
L’Echelle lay dead and cold among the velvet cushions, the 
half-smoked cigarette lying on the carpet at his side, one hand 
clinched, the other hanging down, limp and stiff, while on I he 
floor, a yard or two distant, a small dagger lay, its blade dis- 
colored by the blood which had ensanguined it from a deep 
though not large wound on L’Echelle’s breast. 

Giuseppe’s cries of terror and distress in his strange, foreign 
tongue roused the house, and aid was promptly called in. 
And, at the same moment that the Italian rushed frantically 
screaming from his master’s room, the heavy rumble of the 
hotel coach wheels thundered from the door. 

It was the coach for the half past twelve o’clock express to 

B , and by its open window, crowded by other passengers, 

sat the lovely lady with the golden hair and blue e3'es, one 
cheek leaning on her jeweled hand, and her gaze riveted on 
the darkness of the midnight sky. 


GHAPTEE IV. 

THE TRAVELERS ARE DETAINED. 

A murder!” cried the Reverend Milo Gresham. This 
is very strange — and very sad also. And in the room directly 
beneath this, you say, my mani^” 


IDA CHALOlSrER^S HEART. 


29 


Yes^ sir/’ answered the waiter, delighted to get a new 
audience for the catalogue of horrors he had to recite; “a 
foreign gentleman, sir — leastways his servant is an Italian, and 
you’d think the poor fellow was going crazy. A pretty com- 
motion they’re in, sir, below stairs.” 

And did they succeed in obtaining any trace of the mur- 
derer as yet?” 

“ Dear no, sir. The coroner hasn’t come yet.” 

“ Very sad — very sad, indeed,” sighed Mr. Gresham, me- 
chanically buttering his toast. 

Ida Chaloner, looking stranger and prettier than ever by the 
morning light, in her velvet dress and gold jewels, was break- 
fasting ill an outlandish sort of way — at least so it appeared to 
the Eeverend Milo Gresham — on iced claret and rolls. She 
looked up as the clergyman spoke. 

“People die everyday, don’t they?” she said, putting a 
second lump of ice in her wine-glass. “Where’s the use of 
making such a fuss over one man?” 

“ Yes, my dear,” answered Mr. Gresham, mildly, “you 
are quite right, they die every day, but not by so sudden and 
violent a death.” 

“ What difference does it make /ww one dies?” asked the 
child, with her big eyes fixed full on the good man’s face. 

“ Much, my dear, because— what did you say? the coach at 
the door for the early train?” 

Mr. Gresham rose hurriedly, for a servant had entered to 
announce these tidings. 

“ Are you ready, Ida?” • 

The child tied on a small black velvet hat, with a silvery 
grebe’s feather on it, by way of ornament, and twisted a scar- 
let cashmere scarf with unconscious grace across her shoulders. 

“ Yes, I’m ready. Tell them to bring the fringed shawl 
and my books.” 

And thus attired, Ida Chaloner marched down the stairs, 
the good clergyman following after, painfully conscious of 
many eyes being upon his curiously costumed charge. She 
looked like an Indian princess — like a picture — like some tiny 
actress on the boards of a theater — like anything in the world, 
in short, but a little girl going to a country school. 

“ Mrs. Gresham will soon set all that right,” said the Kev- 
erend Milo to himself; “ but I wish we were at our journey’s 
end. Ida,” he said, aloud — “ Ida, my child!” 

“What?” 

She spoke with no disrespect, only a deliberate self-asser- 
tion. 


30 


IDA CH A loner’s HEART. 


1 do not exactly like — that is, I hardly deem your dress 
suitable for the cars. I think we shall have time, on the 
way, to purchase a small water-proof cloak, which — 

“ Do you want to wear it?’^ asked Ida, 

‘‘ I, my dear? Assuredly not, for — 

“ Then don’t buy it,^^ said Ida, briefly. And she jumped 
down the stairs two at a time. 

‘‘Is this the room where the man was murdered ?^^ she 
asked, her quick eye catching sight of a little group gathered 
round a door below. “ I want to see how a man that has been 
murdered looks. 

“You can’t go in, miss,” said a middle-aged man who sat 
by the door- way, reading a newspaper. “ The order is not 
to-” 

But Ida Ohaloner, quick and lithe in her motions as a fawn, 
shot past him into the room, regardless of the hand he 
stretched out to detain her. 

“ Ida!” cried good Mr. Gresham, in sore distress of mind — 
“ Ida, come back this instant! Will some of you servants 
please bring her out? It is no place for a child.” And he 
thought of his shy, modest Eleanor, with mute marvel that 
children coidd be so unlike. 

“ Why,” cried Ida’s voice from the inner room, “ it is Mr. 
Pierre! Isn’t it funny that Mr. Pierre should be murdered?” 

And she came out again, swinging her scarf in one hand. 

“ He looks ugly,” she observed, readjusting it on her shoul- 
d^s; “ but he always looked ugly. I touched his hand, and 
it was cold as marble. He looked just as if he was alive, 
lying there among the cushions. Why don’t they put him in 
a coffin!” 

“ Ida, I don’t altogether understand this,” said Mr. Gresh- 
am. “ Do you mean that the gentleman who has been mur- 
dered is the one who brought you here?’"’ 

“ Yes,” answered the child, nodding her head until the 
dark curls danced up and down over her shoulders more fan- 
tastically than ever. “ It’s Mr. Pierre.” 

“All aboard! coach just going!” bawled a hoarse voice at 
the head of the stairs. 

“Come, Mr. Gresham,” chirped Ida, running on ahead; 
“ come, or we shall be left.” 

But a hand was laid on Mr. Gresham’s to detain him. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir. I hope the delay will not prove 
inconvenient to you,” said a mild voice, “ but as the young 
lady seems to know the name of this unfortunate man, per- 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 31 

haps it would be better that she and you remained — at least, 
until the inquest. 

“ Bless my soul!^'' ejaculated the country clergyman, gradu- 
ally beginning to realize the involvement of wWch he found 
himself the unwilling center. Ida! Ida! my dear, do you 
hear whaL this gentleman says? But it toill be inconvenient, 
sir; and if the child’s testimony is not absolutely wanted — ” 
She had better remain,” said the other, one of the land- 
lords of the hotel, as Mr. Gresham afterward learned. “ You 
can easily telegraph to your friends, sir. The jury is paneled 
for eleven this morning, and the detention need not prove 
serious. ” 

Mr. Gresham meekly submitted. He was a man who had 
been accustomed to a life-long abdication of his own will in 
favor of others; nor was the struggle a long one in this in- 
stance. Ida Ohaloner, also, was quite satisfied to remain a 
few hours longer in New York. 

“ I think it’s nice at this hotel,” said Ida, jumping up and 
down on the stairs. 

“ And you’re not afraid of the inquest, miss, dear?” said 
an admiring chamber-maid, who was brushing down the carpet 
with a tiny japanned dust-pan and a hand-broom. 

‘‘No,” said Ida; “ an inquest can’t hurt me. What is it, 
anyhow?” 

“ Oh, a lot of men sitting in the room with the corpse, and 
asking you a sight of questions.” 

“ Questions?” said Ida, soberly. “ Questions in arithmetic 
or geography?” 

“ Bless your heart! miss, no. Questions about what you 
know of the dead man.” 

“ Oh, is that all?” said Ida, evidently relieved. “ I can’t 
tell them much. I never saw him but a few times. ” 

“ And aren’t you sorry for the poor gentleman?” asked the 
chamber-maid, lackadaisically. 

“No,” answered Ida, contracting her black brows; “ I’m 
glad he’s murdered. ” 

The woman gave a little shriek. 

“ But, miss — ” 

“ Lydia,” said a grave voice, speaking over the balustrades, 
“ Lydia, the child is not to be questioned. Attend to your 
work.” 

The woman colored, muttered something, and obeyed. 

Ida, deprived of this temporary companionship, climbed up 
into the end window of the hall, and flattening her pretty lit- 
tle nose against the panes of glass, looked dreamily down upon 


82 


IDA OH A LONER HEART. 


the tumult below; and Mr. Gresham, by way of composing 
his bewildered mind, sat in the reading-room, plodding his 
patient way through the morning newspapers. 

The inquest was brief, and by no means satisfactory. 
Giuseppe Aiitonardi, servant of the deceased, was the first 
witness called. 

His grief was nearly overwhelming, and at times quite 
choked his utterance. Evidently there was something in his 
faithful allegiance quite foreign to American ideas of the rela- 
tionship between master and servant. 

His statement, when reduced to writing, was simple enough. 
He had left his master at about ten o'clock quite well. Even 
then some vague suspicion that something was not right in- 
duced him to return and listen at the door. His master had 
reproved him for it. His master often scolded; but he, 
Giuseppe, never minded him. It was the kindest heart, 
messieurs, that ever breathed. And here Giuseppe broke into 
fresh tears and lamentations. And at twelve, according to 
his orders, he had come to prepare his master for bed; and — 
the hotel servant knew the rest; Giuseppe had no words to re- 
late it. 

“ What was your master^s name?^^ 

“ Pierre Antoine L’Echelle.-^^ 

‘‘ A native of what country?^’ 

Born in Burgundy, France; at least so Giuseppe had 
alwavs heard him say."” 

“ How old?^^ 

Giuseppe could not be certain; he thought, however, not 
much over thirty. Yes, the gentlemen were right; he did 
look older than that, but monsieur had always been a great 
traveler, and had never spared himself. Nevertheless, Giu- 
seppe thought he could not be far above thirty. 

“ How long have you been in his service?^^ was the next 
question. 

“ For nine years. I entered it at Florence, Italy. 

“ Was he a good master?^ ^ 

Giuseppe clasped his hands, and his lips quivered. 

“ The best of masters. Holy San Giuseppe! and the most 
liberal; always prompt with his wages; always liberal with 
gifts. Oh, messieurs, I shall never find such a place again 

Mr. Gresham, standing by, wiped his spectacles, quite moved 
at the Italian warmth and energy of the poor man’s grief. 

Giuseppe had no idea who could possibly have done the 
fatal deed which launched a soul unprepared into eternity. 
“ Enemies! Monsieur L’Echelle was a man who had no 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


33 


enemies. The good and noble — ah, they know not what the 
word enmity means As for other inducements to commit 
the crime, Giuseppe shrugged his shoulders. His master was 
not a rich man, surely not. His watch was costly, and Giu- 
seppe thought he had about his person a pocket-book contain- 
ing money and jewels, family relics; and ‘‘beyond that, no 
inducement, surely no inducement. 

Further investigation brought out the facts that the watch, 
with its heavy chain of unalloyed gold, was missing — also the 
pocket-book. The coroner looked grave. Did Giuseppe 
think there was enough money in the pocket-book to tempt 
the avaricious to murder his master for the mere sake of 
booty? Giuseppe did not know. M. L^Echelle always paid 
his way like a prince, but Giuseppe had never supposed him to 
be a rich man. Still it was possible. Monsieur was not one 
who paraded his wealth. 

Other inquiries elicited few facts. 

Giuseppe knew little of his master^s family or friends. He 
had always been traveling since Giuseppe entered his service, 
and corresponded not at all. Finally the witness was dis- 
missed, and went back in tears to take his faithful place be- 
side the corpse. 

Little Ida Chaloner was next called. She took the oath ac- 
cording to instructions, and looked composedly around the 
group, with the dignity of three times her years. 

“ What is your name?^" mildly questioned the coroner. 

“ Ida Chaloner. 

“ How old are you?^^ 

“ I was ten last July.^^ 

“ Where do you live?^^ 

“ Oh, most anywhere — at the Hollisforde Hotel just now. 
I lived in Paris last month. 

“ Did you know the deceased?’^ 

Ida nodded, with a look of aversion in the direction of the 
sofa-cushions. 

“ What is his name?^'' 

“ I donT know what his name is. I call him Mr. Pierre."'^ 

“ How long have you known him?’^ 

“ A long while, said the child, pressing one hand to her 
forehead with a troubled look, as if trying to recall some- 
thing. “ I have known him ever since I can remember. 

“ Did you like him?^^ 

“ No,’’ said Ida, frankly, and looking the coroner full in 
the face, “ I hated him.” 

Giuseppe started to his feet. 

2 


34 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


The siguorina must not say such things of my master/^ 
he cried, passionately. 

“ Hold your tongue, Giuseppe, said Ida, with scornful 
contempt. 1 shall say what I please. You are nothing but 
aservant."” 

The coroner restored order with some difficulty; and Ida, 
after she had called Giuseppe a score or two of names in very 
good Italian, consented to answer further questions. 

No; she did not know where Mr. Pierre lived; he was no re- 
lation to her; she thought he disliked her; she was certain 
(with a defiant sparkle of the eyes toward Giuseppe) that she 
disliked him. He had always paid her expenses; she supposed 
he was rich. He had brought her there the day before, early 
in the morning, had left her in the charge of the chamber- 
maid until Mr. Gresham of Deepdale should come to her; and 
kissed her good-bye, but she had not kissed him back again — 
she never kissed people whom she hated (another glance at 
Giuseppe). He had told her he was going back to Paris; she 
supposed him to be gone; had no idea he was still at the 
hotel, until she saw his dead body. And then, after a few 
more unimportant questions, Ida was dismissed, and ran off to 
play with a fat white poodle dog which belonged to some lady 
boarder at the hotel. 

The Eeverend Mr. Gresham’s letter was next produced and 
identified by Giuseppe, notwithstanding the fictitious signature 
appended, to be the handwriting of the deceased; and beyond 
these unsatisfactory facts nothing could be learned. 

The dagger, which had been pounced upon as a valuable 
link of evidence, proved to be quite useless. It was a small, 
foreign -looking toy-— so small and slight indeed that it was a 
matter of marvel that the taper blade could have inflicted so 
fatal a blow— and bore, on an engraved shield on the handle, 
the name of a Parisian firm. But as many of these daggers 
had been imported into this country, this furnished no special 
clew. Giuseppe had never seen such a dagger before; his 
master was not in the habit of carrying concealed weapons — 
and there inquiry ceased. 

The final verdict — that Pierre Antoine L’Echelle came to 
his death on the — day of October, 18 — , at the hand of some 
person or persons unknown, was readily resolved upon. Mr. 
Gresham, when the official proceedings were over, came for- 
ward and had begun some incoherent speech concerning his 
willingness to refund so much of the money advanced in be- 
half of Ida Chaloner as would be necessary to defray the fu- 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 35 

neral expenses, when Giuseppe advanced, with swollen, tear- 
stained eyes: 

“No, messieurs, the faithful servant said, hoarsely, “ the 
money is doubtless in right of the signorina. Let it remain. 
I, Giuseppe, am the only remaining friend of Monsieur 
L^EcheJle, a poor, humble friend, but not ungrateful. It is 
for me to bury him in the cemetery where others of his faith 
lie interred. 1 am not rich — no, messieurs, but in his service, 
the service of one who was most generous and liberal, 1 have 
saved something; to his memory let it be dedicated r"" 

“Poor fellow said the coroner, as he nodded assent to 
Giuseppe^s ill-pronounced English, “ there really must have 
been something remarkable in this L^Echelle to attract the 
man to him so faithfully.^'’ 

Of course there was no objection to Giuseppe^s proposal ; 
there seldom is when men are not asked to put their hands 
into their own pockets, and Mr. Gresham felt considerably re- 
lieved when he reflected that Ida^s little fortune would not be 
trenched upon. 

Nor was he sorry to And himself in the evening train for 
Deepdale, a newspaper in his hand, and Ida kneeling upon the 
cushions opposite. 

The necessity for a few minutes of quiet in which to com- 
pose his mind and reflect upon the strange scenes through 
which he had just passed, was almost imperative. The coun- 
try clergyman, whose existence had for years been a sort of 
patient unvarying tread-mill of monotonous toil, had moment- 
arily been lifted, as it were, out of his ordinary sphere; nor 
was he dissatisfled to feel himself once more settling into it. 

“ This is a noisy world and a bewildering one,^^ said the 
Eeverend Mr. Gresham to himself; “ and I am best out of its 
tumult and turmoil. 


CHAPTER V. 

■^DA^’S HEW" HOME. 

Little Angie Gresham, in a stiffly starched pink calico 
dress, and her yellow curls, yet wet and dripping from their 
manipulation over Eleanor^s fingers, was perched on a wooden- 
seated chair, straining her round blue eyes out of the second- 
story window for the expected coming of her father. She had 
been sorely disappointed in the evening when, instead of 
“ papa himself, a telegram, unsatisfactory, and briefly 
worded, had arrived. 

“ Unexpectedly detained. Will come on the evening 


36 


IDA CHA loner’s HEART. 


train,” was all the message contained, and the children, who 
had rallied en masse to meet their father, had exhausted their 
juvenile brains in conjectures as to what could possibly be the 
cause of his detention; and now, as the time drew near for his 
actual coming, Mrs. Gresham, busy in the kitchen, could not 
but congratulate herself that the mysterious palisaded hut, 
now in course of preparation down by the river-side, made the 
boys oblivious of the passage of the hours and minutes. 

“I shouldn’t have a second’s peace if they were here,” 
thought Mrs. Gresham, as she poured off the grape jelly she 
had just finished straining through a flannel cloth. 

‘‘Mamma! mamma!” cried a small, shrill voice, and 
Angie toddled into the room, with crimson cheeks and eyes 
sparkling with excitement, “he’s coming — papa’s coming, 
and what do you think — the little boy is a girl!” 

Mrs. Gresham set down the wide-mouthed pickle-bottle, 
which her housewifely ingenuity was converting into a jelly- 
jar. 

“ Angie, child, what on earth do you mean?” 

“It is true, mamma,” said Eleanor, who had followed her 
little sister down; “ he is coming up the path below the stone 
wall, and there’s a strange-looking girl with him, dressed in 
black velvet, with some sort of a red shawl dragging on the 
ground behind.” 

“ My goodness gracious!” was Mrs. Gresham’s comment, as 
she hurriedly washed her hands at the sink and untied the 
apron which encircled her trim little waist, “ what does all 
this mean?” 

Ida Chaloner took her introduction to the Gresham family 
very coolly, inclining her head ceremoniously to Mrs. Gresh- 
am, when that kind lady would fain have taken her to her 
motherly heart with a welcome kiss, and taking no notice of 
Angie, who stood on tiptoe to pufc up her little cherry lips. 

“ Is this your house, sir?” said Ida, glancing round as she 
stood in the middle of the room. 

“ Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Gresham, who had been explain- 
ing to his wife, in a whisper, the singular circumstances which 
had transpired during his absence; “ how do you like it?” 

“ I think it is a very common sort of place,” said Ida, 
slowly. “ What kind of a carpet is that?” 

“ It is made of rags, my dear,” began Mrs. Gresham, color- 
ing a little, “ and — ” 

“Bags! I should think it was!” echoed Ida; “ and such 
low walls! I feel as if they were going to fall on my head. 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 37 

Somebody take this shawl. Little girl/^ to Angie^ ‘‘ call the 
servant. 

‘‘We don^t keep a help/^ said Angie. 

“ What is a help?"''’ asked Ida, turning to Eleanor. 

“She means a servant,’^ explained Eleanor, with a dis- 
tressed look toward her mother. “ 1^11 take your shawl, Ida.^^ 

“No servants!^'’ repeated Ida; “ why, you must be beggars. 
I never was in a place before where they didn^t have serv- 
ants.,*^ ^ 

“ You will soon get used to it, Ida,^^ said Mrs. Gresham; 
“ we all wait on ourselves here. Eleanor, take your friend 
up to your room, where she can prepare for tea. Don^t mind 
her, Selina, my dear,^’ he whispered to his wife, “ it^s only 
her strange foreign way.'’^ 

“ I wish that little girl with the thick shoes would stop 
staring so,^^ said Ida, loftily, with a motion of her head to- 
ward Angie, who stood directly in front of her, the rosy hands 
clasped over her belt, and the blue eyes fixed steadfastly on 
the stranger^s face. 

“ Angie, come here,'’^ said Eleanor, gently. “ Ida, shall we 
go upstairs? This way, please, for Ida had turned toward 
the hall. 

“ IsnT there any other way?^’ demanded the child, with a 
very perceptible elevation of her upper lip. “ I donT like to 
walk over a carpet that is made of rags.'’^ 

But she went upstairs, nevertheless, and allowed Eleanor to 
bathe her- face and hands, brush out her silken black curls, 
and remove the dust from her dress with a little broom, which 
was kept for the Eeverend Milovs Sunday coat. 

“You shouldnT have worn this dress in the cars,^^ said 
thrifty Eleanor, in a voice of mild reproof. 

“Why not?’’ demanded Ida, who was reclining sultana- 
like on the bed, and allowing the other little girl to wait on 
her, as if it were a special favor. 

“ Because it gets so dusty. Only see there, in the folds. 
Will you please stand up?” 

“ No, I won’t,” said Ida, calmly. “ What would you do, 
if you hadn’t any other frock?” 

“No other frock than this?” 

Ida nodded. 

“ 1 only have a dress at a time, and I wear it all the while, 
and then I buy another. Don’t you like the frock? I 
selected it. ” 

“ It is very handsome,” said truthful Eleanor, “ but — ” 

“ But what?” 


38 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


“ I think a calico would have been more suitable. 

‘‘ Calico, indeed/’ said Ida, “ but you don’t know. You 
live on a carpet of rags, and you don’t have servants. Get 
me a glass of water!” 

“ Ida, please don’t,” remonstrated Eleanor, as the stranger 
nestled her head away among the pillows. ‘‘You are spoil- 
ing all the curls.” 

“I don’t care!” said Ida, sharply. “The water! Don’t 
I tell you I am thirsty?” 

“ There is a pailful down-stairs, with a gourd in it,” said 
Eleanor. “ Perhaps you had better come down now. The 
tea-bell is ringing.” 

Much to Eleanor’s relief, Ida assented to this proposal, and 
followed her down to the room where the family were already 
gathered round the humble table. 

“ Ida,” said Mr. Gresham, “ take that chair by Mrs. Gresh- 
am.” 

And then, as the boys rushed into the room like whirlwinds, 
Mr. Gresham introduced them to his little charge. Geoffrey 
and Mon tmorenci bowed stiffly, Harry Tudor put out his hand, 
which Ida utterly ignored, and little Jamie smiled his welcome, 
as he climbed into the chair next to Angie. 

Bread and milk and sliced peaches, with a small piece of the 
plainest kind of cake, was a new diet to Ida; but as she really 
was very hungry, and, moreover, saw nothing else on the 
table, she managed to make a very hearty meal. Her hunger 
appeased, she looked deliberately around, and caught Geoffrey 
Moreland’s eye, at the moment in which he crammed a huge 
wedge of cake into his mouth, winking at her as he did so. 

“ Well, Miss Chaloner,” said Geoffrey, the moment he 
could get his breath, “ what do you think of the Deepdale 
Rectory?” 

“ Is this the Deepdale Rectory?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ It’s a horrid, stuffy little place!” 

Geoffrey stared in amazement at this remarkably plain- 
spoken statement. 

“ And what do you think of the people who live in it. Miss 
Black-velvet?” 

“ Of you?” 

“ Yes, of me, if you choose.” 

“ I think you are tall and ugly, with a brown face and a 
crumpled cravat!” 

“ And I think you are a rude little pussy-cat,” retorted the 


lt)A CHALO^EJl‘s HEAM. 39 

discomfited Geoffrey. What did you come here for if you 
douH like us?^^ 

“ I didn^t come here, I was brought here.'^^ 

“ And whereas the difference. Miss Queen-of-Sheba?^^ he 
demanded, sarcastically. 

“ What do you call me that for?^^ she asked. 

“ Because you look exactly like the picture of the Queen of 
Sheba, in that queer little black velvet dress, with the gold 
crinkum-crankum round your arm. 

Ida glanced complacently down at her bracelets. 

“ Yes,^^ she said; “ I think they are very pretty. 

I don^t, then. Why don^t you dress like other girls? 
Eleanor looks a heap sight better than you do.'’^ 

Ida looked up, and her eyes sparkled ominously. 

It is false — she does not.^^ 

She does, too!^^ persisted the merciless Geoffrey, who was 
delighted to discover that he had power to tease the new- 
comer. Why, one would think you were a little negress, 
with your black skin and your gold chains, and your odd, out- 
landish dress 

Geoff, don^t tease her!’^ remonstrated Eleanor, sorely 
distressed. 

‘‘ Feel her hair, and see if it ain^t woolly,^^ went on Geof- 
frey, while Monty chuckled audibly. 

Ida rose up, and walking deliberately round to the chair 
wherein sat her tall tormentor, inflicted a sounding slap on 
his cheek — a slap so vigorously given that the pink prints of 
her fingers remained in five dots. 

“ There she said, vindictively. 

Ida! Ida!^^ exclaimed Mr. Gresham, who had until now 
been talking absorbedly with his wife. ‘‘ My child, what does 
this mean?^^ 

‘‘ Let her alone, uncle,' ^ said Geoff, with a grimace. I 
thought it was only a mosquito biting my cheek. 

He called me a negress?^^ said Ida. 

Geoffrey said Mr. Gresham, reprovingly. 

‘‘ Well, hasnT she an Ethiopian look, sir, in that outland- 
ish dress? 

Monty giggled. Harry Tudor looked apprehensive of an- 
other onslaught on the part of the visitor. 

‘^Boys,^^ said Mr. Gresham, gravely, ‘^you may come to 
my study. Eleanor, I trust to you to make Ida as comforta- 
ble as possible.’^ 

And he left the room with his convoy of boys, meditating 
how best to organize a permanent peace. 


40 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


“ I hate that tall fellow/^ said Ida, energetically. 

My dear/^ said Mrs. Gresham, ‘‘ little girls should not 
say ‘ hate. ’ It is too strong a word. As fur Geoffrey, he is 
a great tease, but he has a very kind heart; you must not 
mind him. 

‘‘ Do you wash the plates yourself said Ida, diverted from 
the contemplation of her wrongs by watching Mrs. Gresham 
collect all the dishes together in a deep tin pan. 

“ Yes, and Eleanor wipes them; would you Jike to help?^^ 

Ida pursed up her lips and shook her head. 

“ I am not a servant ^ 

‘‘ Neither am I, my dear,^^ said the lady, mildly. 

‘‘ You look like one, and you are dressed like one,^^ said 
Ida, superciliously eying the clergyman'’s wife. 

Mrs. Gresham went on with her work in silence; she hardly 
knew what to say to this strange little creature. 

“ Are you tired, Ida?’"' she asked, after a few minutes, dur- 
ing which, with Eleanor’s help, the dishes were all washed 
and put away, while Angie sat in her little arm-chair, gravely 
nursing a headless doll, and shyly watching the stranger from 
underneath her long eyelashes. 

‘‘No.” 

“Yet you have traveled a long distance.” 

“ I have traveled before now,” said Ida, coolly. “ If you 
will ring for lights, I will read a little.” 

“ Eleanor,” said Mrs. Gresham, “ bring a candle — or, per- 
haps, my child, you had better go into the study; papa always 
burns wax-candles there.” 

Ida obeyed; but her reading was soon interrupted in this 
new sphere by the interest she took in a busy game of marbles 
between the four boys; and presently she was down on the 
floor in their midst, her silky curls hanging disheveled over 
her face, playing, as Monty declared, “ ’most as well as if she 
was a boy.” 

“ Come,” said Geoffrey, patronizingly, as she made a par- 
ticularly brilliant shot, and lifted her large eyes to his, full of 
sparkling triumph, “ you’re a pretty jolly sort of fellow, after 
all, in spite of the Queen of Sheba.” 

“ If you call me that again — ” began Ida, breathlessly. 

“ What objection have you?” asked Geoffrey. “ The 
Queen of Sheba was a very gorgeous person— at least so I 
have always heard. ” 

“ I don’t care whether she was or not; if you call me lhat 
name again. I’ll knock you down.” 

The other boys burst out laughing. 


IDA CHALOI^ER^S HEART. 


41 


“ Ida, you ought to have been a boy/^ said Harry Tudor. 

1 wish I was/^ cried Ida, shaking back her curls. 
“ Come, Harry, it^s your shot now.^^ 

But 1 say,"’"’ went on Geoffrey, if you come any of that 
knocking down game on a poor little fellow like me — 

Ida rose up, and dropping her marbles on the floor, marched 
solemnly out of the room. 

There, said Monty, ‘‘you\e driven her off with your 
nagging, and I’m real sorry, for she aims the best of the whole 
of you!” 

“ I’ll go and bring her back,” said Harry Tudor. 

But all his persuasions were of no avail, Ida would not re- 
turn. 

‘‘ I’ll play with you, when that big, tall fellow is gone,” 
she said, resentfully; but not before.” 

When the little girls went up to their room, Ida examined 
the sheets of the small white bed in the corner, which Mrs. 
Gresham told her was to be hers. 

“ Cotton!” she said, contemptuously. I always sleep on 
linen.” 

‘‘ But, Ida,” said Mrs. Gresham, “ we have no linen sheets.” 

And a counterpane made of little cloths sewed together!” 
commented Ida. “I never saw such a thing before.” 

“ That’s patchwork, that is,” chimed in little Angie, eager- 
ly. “ I’m making a patchwork in stars!” 

‘‘ However,’" said Ida, I suppose it will have to do, seeing 
you are such poor people. ” 

“We are not poor,” said Eleanor, indignantly. “ Mam- 
ma, are we?” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Gresham, “it is no disgrace to be 
poor. We certainly are not rich. Ida, where is your night- 
dress?” 

“ I haven’t got any,” said Ida. 

“ Why, what did you sleep in last night?” 

“ The chamber-maid at the hotel lent me one.” 

“ Where are your own?” 

“ I had only two,” said Ida, swinging her small white feet 
backward and forward as she sat on the side of the bed; “ and 
one was all worn and frayed, and when I came from Paris, 
Mr. Pierre was in such a hurry for the boat that I never 
thought of them. ” 

“ And your other underclothes?” 

“ My bag was left in Paris, too. Mr. Pierre said I could 
easily get more. I’ve got lots of money,” she added, tri- 
umphantly. 


42 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


‘‘My poor child/’ said Mrs. Gresham. “That is right, 
daughter/’ as Eleanor brought forward a neat little folded 
robe of her own, and slipped it over Ida’s shoulders. “ ISTow, 
Ida, for your prayers. ” 

The child scrambled into bed, with a merry, defiant laugh. 

“ Prayers! I never say any.” 

“ Never say any prayers?” 

“No,” said Ida. “ How sweet these sheets smell — as if 
they were full of roses. What should I say prayers for? Mr. 
Pierre says they are all humbug. I used to have a string of 
beads once with a cross on it, but — I — lost it.” 

The last words were drowsily spoken, as if slumber were 
already overshadowing the luminous foreign eyes. 

“ But, Ida,” said Mrs. Gresham, very heartily disturbed, 
“ this is all wrong. Try to repeat a prayer, no matter how 
short!” 

“ I can’t; I’ve forgotten ’em long ago.” 

“ Can not you say ‘ Our Father which art in Heaven?’ ” 

“No.” 

“ Then, Ida, listen to me. I will repeat it, and you shall 
say ‘ Amen. ’ ” 

“ Any way for peace in the family,” said Ida, sleepily. 

So Mrs. Gresham, kneeling by the bedside, slowly and rever- 
ently repeated the sacred words. At their close she paused. 
There was no response. 

“ Ida,” she said, mildly. 

“ Well — what is it?” demanded the child, petulantly. “ I 
was asleep.” 

“ But I wanted you to say ‘ Amen.’ ” 

“ ‘ Amen,’ then — half a dozen of ’em, if you please — and 
now do let me go to sleep. ” 

“ Mamma,” whispered Eleanor, as her mother paused, ere 
leaving the apartment, to tuck up the clothing of the bed 
where her own daughters lay, “ isn’t it dreadful? Only think 
of it, a little girl who don’t know her prayers!” 

“ She has been negligently brought up, Eleanor,” said Mrs. 
Gresham, in a low voice. “We shall soon teach her better, I 
hope. And be sure you are very kind to her, for she is away 
from her native land, and papa says she has neither father nor 
mother.” 

“But she speaks so rudely to you and papa, mamma.” 

“ I don’t think she means to be rude, dear. It is only her 
way. Go to sleep now, and don’t let Angie throw the clothes 
off and get cold.” 


IDA CHALOHEE^S HEART. 43 

Mrs. Gresham went down-stairs to her husband ^s study, 
where the good man was deep in his books. 

Well, my dear Selina/’ he said, looking up, “ what have 
you done with the little tropical bird?” 

‘‘ She is safe in her nest. Oh, Milo, what a responsibility 
this is we have taken upon ourselves! Only think! the child 
knows no prayers; tells me in plain words that she never says 
any!” 

Mr. Gresham looked disturbed. 

‘‘ I suppose that is the Eoman Catholic element of her edu- 
cation.” 

‘‘ But I have always heard that the Eoman Catholics are 
more punctilious about their devotions than we ourselves.” 

Then it is total neglect. Poor child! Selina, we must 
do our best to plant good seed in the untilled garden of her 
heart. ” 

“ Milo,” said Mrs. Gresham, who had already heard from 
her husband the particulars of his assuming this strange 
charge, the fi\re hundred dollars, with care and economy, 
will last a couple of years — ” 

‘‘ And she tells me she has some money of her own,” inter- 
rupted Mr. Gresham. 

‘‘Yes, she has some of her own; but it will all be needed to 
provide her at once with decent and suitable clothing for the 
approaching winter season. And have you ever thought, my 
dear husband, where all future supplies are to come from? 
You say yourself that she is without living friend or relation. 
Who- is to meet the inevitable expenses of the future?” 

Mr. Gresham placed his hand tenderly on his wife’s shoulder. 

“Selina,” he said, “do you remember the words of the 
Psalmist, ‘ I have been young and am now old, yet have I not 
seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread?’ 
The Lord will provide; let us leave all these anxious cares in 
His hands. Evidently she is placed in our hands through His 
righteous providence, and He will find for us a path out of 
the troubled ways.” 

And so Mr. Gresham resumed his books. 

CHAPTEE VI. 

THE LOST CHILD. 

The next day or two was a holiday at the Eeverend Milo 
Gresham’s family school. Ida Chaloner’s anxiety to explore 
the woods, fields, and rocks surrounding her new home was so 
extreme, as well as natural, and the other children were so 


44 


IDA CHALONEH'S HEART. 


eager to accompany her on these tours of inspection, and play 
cicerone to the spots they had known and reveled in from 
childhood, that Mi\ Gresham suspended work for a brief while. 

It will be all the better when they are settled down,^^ he 
thought, indulgently. For the children, notwithstanding the 
stormy clouds of discord which overhung their first meeting 
with the little stranger, were beginning to grow very fond of 
her. True, she was imperious as a small despot well could be 
— changing in her moods, and instantaneous in vengeance, 
but then there was a singular attractiveness in her vivacity, 
and a perpetual fund of amusement in following up her 
original ideas which these country children fully appreciated. 

She^s a queer little fire-fly, quoth Geoffrey Moreland. 

“ Oh, 1 like her so much,^^ said Harry Tudor. 

“ !She can tell the j oiliest fairy stories you ever heard, 
chimed in Montmorenci. Even Eleanor was beginning to 
think Ida might be a very nice companion, after all, and little 
Angie was never weary in following after the swift footsteps 
of the foreign child. 

But when study once more commenced, Ida proved the most 
difficult pupil the Eeverend Mr. Gresham had ever undertaken 
to train into scholarship. It was not that the child lacked 
natural ability, of that she had plenty, but the deficiency was 
in steady-trained application. Ida Chaloner learned, as Harry 
Tudor envyingly remarked, “ at railroad rate,^^ when she 
chose; but when she did not choose, no snail ever was slower. 
Moreover, her education, if the term could be applied to aught 
so incomplete as was her intellectual cultivation up to this 
time, had been superficial in the extreme. She spoke fluently 
in French, but she could not conjugate a French verb; she ex- 
pressed herself readily in the Italian language, but she could 
not have spelled the comuionest word in the lexicon; she could 
draw from nature, after her fantastic fashion, dance like a 
queen of the ballet, and sing pretty little ballads to Mrs. Gresh- 
am’s long-disused guitar; but she could not repeat the multi- 
plication table, and made even Angie laugh at her ludicrous 
mistakes in the simplest outlines of geography. With all this, 
she despised history, and had a demure fashion of substituting 
her beloved book of fairy tales, in the place of the well-thumbed 
school volumes behind the tall ledge of her desk. 

Ida,” said Mr. Gresham, despairingly, when, after a long 
morning of what he supposed study, she was found totally 
ignorant of the reign of Kichard the Third, and Harry, called 
up as an unwilling witness, had accounted for this vacuum of 
ideas by the fact that Sis had been reading the picture-book 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 45 

with the blue cover — ‘Mda, I shall certainly be obliged to 
take that book away from you.^^ 

Ida’s dark eyes shone, as a summer cloud shines before the 
red lightning bursts from its overcharged heat. 

You dare not!” she cried, stamping her tiny foot; ‘‘ it is 
mine!” 

Mr. Gresham had long learned how impolitic it was to check 
Ida Ohaloner as he would have checked one of the others; 
consequently he overlooked the glaring rebellion of her voice 
and manner. 

“ I would not wish to, certainly,” he answered, quietly; 

but, Ida, what else can I do? Your lessons must be 
learned. Take this history, and go back to your desk. ” 

Ida obeyed, and in ten minutes returned, her lesson perfect- 
ly committed. Mr. Gresham internally congratulated himself 
on this easy victory; but he had not done with trouble yet. 

“ I hate arithmetic,” said Ida, as she rumpled her curls 
mercilessly over the multiplication table — ‘‘ 1 hate it! I hate 
it! and 1 never can learn this beast of a lesson.” 

“ I can say it all, Ida,” said Angie, complacently, clear 
up to twelve times twelve. ” 

‘‘ I am not a parrot,” returned Ida, disdainfully, and I 
wish you’d hold your tongue, Angie. ” 

^‘Ida,” said Mr. Gresham, when the ear-marked book was 
brought to him, and the little girl failed signally at thr^e times 
, eleven, ^ ‘ do you know how many days you have been on this 
table?” 

Ida shook her head. 

How many?” 

Nine days. Now I think if you were really to set your- 
self to work you would conquer it in one lesson.” 

“ It’s so hard,” complained Ida. 

‘‘No, my dear, it is not that,” returned Mr. Gresham, 
gravely; “ you didn’t really try — that is all.’^ 

Ida did not answer, but the dark eyes were clouded and 
downcast. 

Suddenly the sound of voices outside the door attracted her 
attention. She brightened in an instant. 

“ Geoff and Harry,” she cried, “ going down to the Eobin- 
son Crusoe cave! Oh, Mr. Gresham, can I go with them?” 

“ I think, Ida,” was Mr. Gresham’s mild, considerate re- 
ply, “ that Eobinson Crusoe’s cave attracts an undue share of 
your attention. You can not go with them; and, moreover, 
you can not visit the cave again for any purpose whatever, 
until you have mastered the first section of your arithmetic. 


46 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAET. 


containing all the tables. Here is the book, my child. Les- 
sons are over for to-day; let us see how industrious you can be 
to-morrow. 

But when the morrow came, Ida Chaloner^s well-thumbed 
little arithmetic was found to be missing. The whole house 
was ransacked — upstairs, down-stairs, and in the lady’s 
chamber all without avail. 

‘‘ Can not you think what you did with it, Ida?’^ Mr. Gresh- 
am asked. 

But no; Ida was oblivious. 

“Then,^’ said the clergyman, “we must borrow Henry’s 
book. It is a somewhat more advanced edition, but the tables 
are the same. 

“ I can not study if my book is gone,” cried Ida, breath- 
lessly. 

“ My dear child, •there is more than one arithmetic in the 
world. ” 

And Ida, flushed and indignant, was set down to study the 
obnoxious multiplication table out of Harry Tudor’s text- 
book. 

“Papa,” cried Monty Gresham, that evening when he 
came in, “ see what I found down in the trout-brook, jammed 
up among the big wet stones, and Ida’s slipper stuck in the 
mud jusLbeyond.” 

Ida Chaloner grew very red, and then colorless, as she bent 
lower over Harry Tudor’s “ Elementary Arithmetic.” 

Mr. Gresham took from Monty’s hand the wet, muddy 
relics of the mysteriously rescued volume. 

“ Oh, Ida!” reproached Mrs. Gresham, “ and that is what 
became of the slipper you said you had lost.” 

“ Ida,” said Mr. Gresham, gravely, “ how can you explain 
this?” 

Ida had no explanation to give. Quite silent, she listened 
to Mr. Gresham’s reproofs and admonitions on the nature of 
falsehood. 

“I hope,” said the good man, severely, “ your own con- 
science will reprove you sufticiently this time; but if the 
offense is repeated, I shall And myself compelled to punish 
you in a manner that you will not soon forget!” 

Ida looked up at him with a strange, fluttered look — a look 
that spoke mingled wrath, defiance, and terror. 

“ Eeturn to your lesson, Ida,” he said, briefly. Somehow 
he felt like one who handles some strange, explosive fire-arm 
full of hidden danger. 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 47 

But Ida dashed the muddy little arithmetic to the floor, and 
spurned it with her small, taper foot. 

I will never learn the multiplication table, she cried, in 
a choked voice; “ Til kill myself first. 

Angie began to cry, Eleanor turned pale, while Jamie clung 
to her skirts, and the three boys looked on in ill- concealed 
trepidation. 

“ Go to your room, Ida,^’ said Mr. Gresham. 

Ida turned and obeyed, walking like a little queen. 

Mrs. Gresham, urged thereto by a glance from her husband, 
followed the child upstairs, to try and soothe her excited mood. 

But it was useless. Ida would neither speak nor look up. 

Let her alone,^^ said Mr. Gresham, when his wife report- 
ed to him her entire lack of success. Shefll cool down be- 
fore bed-time, I dare say — the rebellious little sprite! I am 
glad Eleanor and Angeline are not of such inflammable mate- 
rial.'’^ 

But at night, when the little girls went to their room, care- 
fully convoyed by Mrs. Gresham bearing a light, Ida Chal- 
oner’s tiny bed was empty and the room vacant. 

‘‘Dear me!^^ ejaculated Mrs. Gresham, “where can the 
child be gone? Perhaps to the study; she likes to sit there by 
the firedight, when no one else is in the room.^^ 

But Ida was not in the study, nor in the play-room, nor yet 
sobbing out her griefs on the shoulder of her favorite ally, 
Monty Gresham. A search throughout the rectory grounds, 
extended even to Eobinson Orusoe^s Cave, proved equally 
futile. The matter began to grow serious. 

“ Do you know, Milo,^’ said Mrs. Gresham to her husband, 
in a troubled whisper, “ I think she has run away.'’^ 

It was but the echo of a thought which had occurred to Mr. 
Gresham^’s own mind. 

“ But where could she run to?^’ he asked, uneasily. 

“ I hope she hasnT slipped into the river,^^ exclaimed Mrs. 
Gresham, growing very pale. “It is very full after these 
November rains. Oh, Milo! what ought we to do?^^ 

Not a member of the family, Jamie and Angeline excepted, 
slept that night, so great was the consternation and anxiety 
throughout the household; and with the earliest dawn of the 
gray autumnal morning, the search was resumed. Nobody 
knew, until this moment of doubt and vague terror, how dear 
the little foreign-born child had insensibly become to all of 
their hearts during the few brief weeks of her domestication 
among them. 


48 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


‘‘ I shall never forgive myself if anything has happened to 
Ida/^ said Mr. Gresham. 

But nobody can say that you were to blame, Milo/^ urged 
his wife. 

I shall always say so myself/^ he returned, buttoning his 
overcoat, to renew the search. 

Nightfall came once more, but with it no Ida, and to the 
little family at the rectory, gathered silently about their 
almost untasted evening meal, it seemed as if every corner of 
the room was full of mute reminders of the lost child. Her 
fairy-book lay on the window-ledge, open, as she had left it; 
her tiny handkerchief was on the lounge, and a bunch of wild 
asters she had brought in was slowly fading on the mantel, 
while the unlucky arithmetic, the cause of all her troubles, 
still lay on the floor where she had spurned it with her foot in 
the moment of her impetuous anger. 

‘‘ Papa,^^ whispered Angie, in a suppressed voice, do you 
think Ida will come back to-morrow?^^ 

I hope so, child — I hope so!^’ returned her father, and 
then added, as if to himself, “ God help me! I did not know 
I had grown to love the girl so dearly!"’ 

Mrs. Gresham furtively wiped her eyes. She had no mem- 
ory now for Ida’s caprices or rebellion — she remembered only 
the child’s affectionate ways and really loving heart. 

‘‘Don’t talk so, Milo,” she said, piteously. “One would 
think, by the way you speak, that the child was — dead. ” 

The last word was uttered in a whisper, and Eleanor’s hand 
tightened on her mother’s. 

“ Oh, mamma, that can’t be possible.” 

“ Of course it can’t; that’s just what I say.” 

But they all started nervously when a loud and sudden 
knocking came to the door. Montmorenci jumped up to 
open it, but his father beckoned to him to sit still, and him- 
self answered the summons. 

A tall, heavily built man stood there, with long, swarthy 
hair and beard, and a skin bronzed by exposure to sun and 
storm to almost mulatto darkness. 

“ Is this here the Deepdale Eectory?” awkwardly twirling 
the brim of a ragged straw hat in his hands. 

“ It is!” Mr. Gresham answered, peering anxiously into the 
man’s face. 

“ Well, then, p’r’aps you may have missed a black-eyed lit- 
tle gal, may be nine or ten years old — ” 

“ Ida!” ejaculated Mrs. Gresham, breathlessly, springing to 
her husband’s side. 


IDA CHALONER'S heart. 


49 


‘‘ Let the man go on, my dear,^^ said Mr. Gresham, striv- 
ing to speak collectively. ‘‘ What of her? Is she — ’’ 

“ She^s up to our place, seven miles beyond. I belong to 
Gypsy Ben^s gang — web^e making baskets up there, and doing 
a bifc other work o’ whiles. ” 

“ You are one of the gypsies?” 

Savin’ your honor’s presence, yes,” answered the man, 
with a grin. ‘‘ We’ve an ugly name given us; but we ain’t 
so bad as we’re called; and when she came here, as pretty and 
bold spoken as you please, wanting to live with us and make 
baskets by the fire, dear heart alive, says I, where’s her 
friends? Well, it was a time before she’d let on, good or bad, 
about where she’d come from; but when she was a-settin’ be- 
fore the fire, warmin’ of her poor little blistered feet, she said 
something ’bout Deepdale. So I come down to Deepdale and 
inquired — on the sly, mind you; for she vowed and declared 
she was going to stay ’long of us, always — for a little creetur, 
about her build and cut, and they told me at Howe’s Tavern 
how you was all in trouble here. And you’d better send for 
her, sir, as soon as may be; for she ain’t no more fit for our 
ways o’ life than if she was the queen’s eldest darter!” 

Mr. Gresham wrung the man’s hard hand, and thanked him 
in broken syllables, while his wife ran to get the slender little 
family purse. 

But the basket-maker turned away when he saw what her 
intention was. 

‘‘ Lord love you, ma’am,” he said, I don’t want no re- 
ward. We couldn’t do nothin’ with the little chick if we was 
to keep her; and I’ve children of my own — not livin’, ma’am; 
but it makes me kind o’ soft-hearted toward children when I 
see ’em lonely like and bewildered. So if the parson’ll get 
his hat and come with me, we won’t be losing any more 
time. ” 

While Nat, the gypsy, and the Keverend Milo Gresham were 
plodding side by side through the rustling drifts of dead leaves 
that choked the woodland paths, by the light of a solitary lan- 
tern that gleamed athwart the autumnal darkness like a red- 
eyed will-o’-the-wisp, little Ida Chaloner sat before the great 
fire that blazed in the center of the gypsy encampment, her 
dark eyes fixed steadfastly on the flames, and her head droop- 
ing slightly. Close beside her a wrinkled old woman was sit- 
ting by the fire, while various dark forms passed and repassed 
her on their way to and from the coarse board shanties that 
were temporarily erected in the woods. One or two wild-look- 
ing children crouched opposite, watching her as rabbits watch 


50 


IDA CHALON^ER^S HEART. 


the casual passer-by from their lurking places in the forest, 
with shy, wild eyes. Ida was not altogether certain that she 
had done a wise thing in joining the gypsies. Somehow, they 
did not seem like the jovial, romantic race that she had read 
about in picture-books. They were dirtier, more hard-work- 
ing, and infinitely more commonplace than she had expected 
to find them, and, moreover, they neither told fortunes nor 
played on mandolins, like the gypsies in Spanish pictures, nor 
was there a red cloak in the whole gang of them. 

Ida wondered what they would say if she were to propose 
seceding from them — and yet she was very loath to go back to 
the rectory and confess how wrong and foolish she had been. 
The multiplication table was very bad, but, after all, this sort 
of thing was worse! 

What is my pretty little lady thinking about?^^ croaked 
the withered old woman, resting her chin on her hands, and 
her elbows on her knees, as Ida chanced to meet her red un- 
winking eyes. 

“ I — I was wondering why you never told fortunes nowa- 
days, said the child, coloring. 

Basket-making pays better, chuckled the woman, ex- 
cept when we^re close to the great cities. 'Would you like to 
sell flowers in the summer-time? We would dress you up and 
send you out with old Lije as his granddaughter — it wouldnT 
be a bad spec. He’s so old and black, and you’re so young 
and pretty. Would you like it?” 

‘‘ No,” said Ida, promptly. 

Oh, yes, you would,” said the old woman, bending over 
to throw a fresh stick into the blazing heart of the fire. 

And — honey, dear — ” 

Well?” 

It’s not the gay gold necklace you’ll be wearin’ when 
you’re sellin’ flowers at the races; ’twouldn’t be proper, ye 
know — would ye mind givin’ it to a poor old woman like me, 
as has buried three grandchildren?” 

An instantaneous refusal was trembling on Ida’s lips, but as 
she looked up and met the glare of greedy desire in the old 
woman’s bleared eyes, the words died away unuttered on her 
lips, and she did not even venture to speak the remonstrances 
that rose to her lips as the crooked yellow fingers of the old 
hag fumbled about her neck, loosing the gold clasps, and re- 
moving the string of glittering beads. 

I’ll keep ’em for you careful,” croaked the woman, her 
)y^ole face aglow with covetous delight. And the brasslets, 
4ear — the heavy brasd^ta; you’ll not be wanting to keep ’em 


IDA CHALOKEK^S HEART. 51 

now! Sure what use would they be to you? Give ^em to me 
— quick, quick 

She extended her hand, at the same time turning her head 
over her left shoulder to listen, with animal quickness of 
apprehension, for far-off footsteps, whose sound she had 
caught. The next minute, before Ida could find words to ex- 
press her vehement disapprobation of this sort of thing, the 
bracelet had been twisted from her arm, and hidden some- 
where in the tattered folds of the old woman^s wretched dress. 

‘‘DonT let on a word, or 1^11 murder ye!^'’ she muttered 
hoarsely in Ida^s ear; and then sitting back to her former post 
among the withered leaves, she resumed her monotonous song, 
rocking back and forth by way of marking the time. 

A minute or two afterward, Nat, the gypsy, strode up the 
narrow path, with Mr. Gresham following close behind. 

“ Is it yerself, Nat?^^ cried the old woman, with well-acted 
surprise; and who would have thought of seein^ ye back so 
quick, intirely? Ik’s you has the feet of swiftness, as yer 
father, rest his soul in glory, had before you! And who^s this 
with ye, Nat; a stranger?^"' 

Stand out of the way, Mother Jude,^"' said Nat, indiffer- 
ently. This is the little gal, sir/^ 

The moment the fire-light shone on Mr. Gresham^s pale and 
agitated face, Ida sprung to her feet, and, with a low cry, ran 
into his outstretched arms. 

‘‘Oh, Mr. Gresham! Mr. Gresham !^^ she cried, nestling 
her head on his shoulder, “ 1 am so glad.^^ 

“Ida! my darling !^^ he muttered, almost inaudibly; “my 
little lost’ lamb!^^ 

Gypsy Nat stood by, silently watching them, his quick eye 
roving restlessly from one to the other. Presently he made 
one stride across the firelit area, and took Mother Jude fierce- 
ly by the throat. 

“ Give back those things !^^ he ejaculated, in a voice of 
smothered passion. “ Give them back, you Jezebel !^^ 

“ What things, Natty dear?^^ gasped the half-choked old 
woman. “ Sure I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Leave 
go, or there’ll be no life left in my wind-pi — i — i — pe.” 

Her speech ended in a strangled squeal. 

“ Isn’t it enough to be vagabonds without being thieves?” 
he demanded, fiercely. “ Give them back, I say.” 

The old woman still demurred, but her purple face and 
staring eyes bore witness to the energy of the gypsy’s grasp. 
With a sudden motion of her left hand she tossed the glitter- 
ing, golden trinkets at Nat’s head. 


52 


IDA CHALOHER’S heart. 


“ Take she screamed, “ and bad luck to you for a 

black-hearted villain, that grudges the very breath o^ life to 
your poor old aunt!^^ 

Quite heedless of Mother Jude^s vituperations, Gypsy Nat 
stooped to pick up the jewels; and when Ida came to bid him 
good-bye a minute or two afterward, he slipped them quietly 
into her hand. 

‘‘ You^ll remember the gypsies, child, that they ainT so bad 
as folks like to belie ve,^^ was his parting word. 

Great was the rejoicing when Ida Chaloner was once more 
brought into the midst of her little family circle at Deepdale 
Rectory, and many marvelous tales the child had to tell of 
her brief sojourn among the wandering children of Egypt. 
There really seemed no opportunity for the moral lesson which 
good Mrs. Gresham was so anxious to inculcate. 

“ But, Ida,^^ she said, finally, as she bent over the tired 
child^s pillow, before she left her for the night, you will 
never run away again 

Ida shook her head. 

‘‘ It wasnT nice,"'’ she said. “ They are so dirty, and their 
clothes smelled so like poor men"s houses."" 

“ And you will promise never to run away again?"" persisted 
Mrs. Gresham. 

I"ll never run to the gypsies, anyhow,"" said Ida, sleepily. 

And that was all the pledge the clergyman"s wife could 
exact from her charge. 

‘‘We hadn"t better press the matter, my dear,"" was the 
Eeverend Mi]o"s verdict, when his wife laid the matter before 
him. “ Ida is peculiar — very; and perhaps we had best leave 
matters as they are!"" 

And to the day of her death, Ida Chaloner lemained in 
hopeless ignorance of the multiplication table. 


CHAPTEE VII. 

CHILD OR WOMAI^? 

The snows and sunshines of five years had passed away since 
the dreary November night when little Ida Chaloner sat 
among the gypsies in the fire-illumined woods, and every year 
had left its not unfavorable impress upon her brow. It was 
hardly to be wondered at that she had changed so as to be 
scarcely recognizable during that time. 

Her home was still at Deepdale Eectory, although the sum 
of money advanced for her by the unfortunate man who had 
come to so sudden and tragic an end was long since exhausted. 


IDA CHALONEB^S HEAET. 


53 


aud she was now, so to' speak, a pensioner on the charity of 
the Reverend Milo Gresham. But she never felt it so. To her 
the Reverend Milo and his gentle little wife were like the fa- 
ther and mother raised up to her loneliness; and she had no 
more idea of obligation toward them than had Eleanor or 
Angie. 

“ Why, they love me!^^ she would have made answer, inno- 
cently, if any one had broached the subject, as if love were 
the universal leveler of all distinctions. 

Nor would Mr. and Mrs. Gresham willingly have spoken a 
word to break the sweet illusion. 

“ God has been very good to us,’^ said the Reverend Milo, 
“ and it would he the grossest ingratitude to shrink from the 
maintenance of the friendless orphan He has intrusted to our 
care. 

“Yes, to be sure,^^ assented Mrs. Gresham; ‘‘and who 
could have the heart to grudge the poor child a bit of bread, 
and a dress now and then! 1 am sure the girls love her as 
if she were a sister, and she^s like a sunbeam about the 
house. 

“ Like a streak of lightning too, sometimes,^’ dryly added 
Mr. Gresham. “ Well, well, we caiiT be all alike; but I do 
sometimes wish she had some of Eleanor^s self -poise and even- 
ness of disposition.^^ 

“Yes,’^ said his wife, medilatively; “she puzzles me. 
She^s a child, playing hoop with Angie, and then she^s a 
woman when the older pupils are here. Milo, my love, donT 
you think that, for the present, while Ida is so beautiful and 
ignorant of the world, you had better take only small boys? 
I really was a little uneasy when she cried so at Percy Hard- 
acre's leaving. It's absurd to talk about a child of fifteen 
having a heart — in a sentimental sort of way, you know; and 
yet I did almost fancy her heart was touched, until I found 
her sitting on the floor playing at tea-party with Angie's china 
tea-set, and fighting the boys who should feed the Java spar- 
rows that little Melville Cross left here." 

Mr. Gresham laughed. 

“ My dear Selina," he said, we mustn't fret ourselves un- 
necessarily about such things. They'll all regulate them- 
selves in time." 

“ When is Geoffrey going away to commence that civil en- 
gineering engagement?" asked Mrs. Gresham after a moment 
or two of thoughtful silence. 

“ Next week, I suppose." 

“ Has he said anything to Eleanor yet?" 


54 


IDA CHALOKEE^S HEART. 


‘‘No — not that 1 know of. Why, Selina,’^ added Mr. 
Gresham, with a shrewd sparkle in his tranquil blue eyes, “ I 
never supposed it possible for you to become such a downright 
match-maker.'’^ 

Mrs. Gresham drew herself up. 

“ Match-maker! That is hardly a just expression, Milo, to 
use concerning a thing which has been settled since they were 
old enough to think of such things. I know Eleanor likes 
him; that is, if I am woman enough to read the expression of 
her face, and 1 am sure he has talked to me time and again 
of what he intended to do when he had got far enough ahead 
in the world to marry Eleanor. They have been fond of one 
another since they were children.’^ 

“ Geoffrey is a good lad,^^ said Mr. Gresham, mildly; “ a 
very good lad, and is likely, for all that I can see, to succeed 
very well in the world. And if Eleanor is really fond of 
him— 

“There I’ ^ cried Mrs. Gresham, laughing, “who is the 
match-maker now?^^ 

“ I was only deducing the inferences from your own prem- 
ises, my love,^^ said the Eeverend Milo Gresham, a little discom- 
fited, as he turned to his books. “ If you are going past the 
study-room, tell the boys 1 am ready for the second Latin divis- 
ion.'” 

Eor Mr. Gresham had his own little library now, separate 
and apart from the hum and tumult of the twelve boys who 
formed his school. Mrs. Gresham, putting her blue cap rib- 
bons into the noisy purlieus of the “ study-room, duly noti- 
fied the “second Latin division^" of their preceptor ^s readi- 
ness, and then, leaning her elbows on the hall windows, looked 
with a half smile down on the little group gathered under the 
spreading branches of a gnarled old apple-tree on the grass 
below. 

“ How foolish 1 am to fret myself about Ida,” she thought. 
“ She is a child — nothing in the world but a child. 

Ida Chaloner was sitting on the grass, her silky black curls 
tied back with a crimson ribbon, so that her exquisite profile, 
pure and correct as an Italian cameo, was in no way marred, 
and the flush of health and happiness on her cheek. At fif- 
teen, she was as beautiful as Hebe^s self, with melting eyes, 
long, dark lashes, dewy red lips, and a complexion like the 
palest pink velvet; and her dress, although of the commonest 
buff calico, seemed to adjust itself to her slender, supple figure 
as the drapery falls round the perfect outlines of a Greek 
Venus. The gold necklace still encircled her cream-white 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


55 


throat, and on her round, dimpled arms flashed the aureate 
shine of the bracelets which old Mother Jude of the ^ypsj 
camp had so nearly contrived to confiscate. Little Angie, 
plump and ‘‘ little still, though she had entered her tenth 
year — was sitting so close to her, that Ida’s curls touched the 
gold-brown hair of the fair, Saxon-like child, and the two were 
in deep conclave over the merits of two well-worn rag dolls. 

No, Angie,” said Ida, gravely; on the whole, I won’t 
exchange. Marguerite isn’t so pretty as Jane Ann, but I like 
her better. I’ve had her longer, you know. I’ll keep Mar- 
guerite. I can easily sew on a new wig of curls and put a 
patch over her nose; and that blue silk dress that I made out 
of Jonas Cameron’s cravat does fit her so prettily. And I say, 
Angie, I’ll help you to make up the lace for Jane Ann’s haif- 
dress, if you’ll curl Marguerite’s hair over a pipe-stem?” 

Well,” assented Angie, in a note of the sunniest content, 
as she looked round for the toilet implements of the doll lady. 

Eleanor Gresham, seated in the shade, with her blue muslin 
dress falling picturesquely over the arm of a rustic garden - 
chair (Geoffrey Moreland’s work), looked up with a smile. 
She had grown into comely maidenhood, like some fair garden 
flower, and the smile lent softened beauty to her delicate oval 
face, as she turned it toward the other two girls. 

‘‘ Ida,” she said, ‘‘ one would think you were a child.” 

I am a child,” returned Ida, gravely, surveying the array 
of silk and cotton scraps spread out on the grass. At least 
I love dearly to play with the dolls; and Mrs. Gresham hasn’t 
made my dresses as long as yours. I suppose I sha’n’t be a 
young lady until I have trailing dresses. ” 

Does that constitute the dividing line between childhood 
and womanhood?” laughed Eleanor. 

“ Why, yes — doesn’t it? But I mean to play with dolls 
always.” 

After you are married?” hazarded i^ngie. 

“ Who is talking about being married?” said Ida. “ I say, 
Angie, give me a bit of your blue Jieck-ribbon — it isg‘ust what 
Marguerite wants to match her complexion. ” 

Mrs. Gresham, who -had been taking note of this little scene 
with inward amusement, now interfered, her voice sounding 
gently downward through the apple boughs: 

“ Ida, my child, it is the hour for your piano practice.” 

Oh, Mrs. Gresham,” pleaded Ida, can’t I stay out just 
ten minutes longer with Angie and the dolls?” 

‘‘Not if you want to go up the mountain trout-fishing with 
James and Monty; they start at four, and it is three already.” 


56 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Oh, to be sure/^ said Ida, springing to her feet, with a 
backward toss of the ribbon-tied curls, “ I wouldn^t miss the 
trout-fishing for a sixpence. I’ll be up to practice directly. 
Which is it to be? the ‘ Cujus Animam,’ or the ‘ Cloches de 
Monastere?’ Say the ‘ Cujus,’ please — that is the easier.” 

I am not certain, Ida,” said Mrs. Gresham, that I am 
doing right to allow you to go on such long rambles with the 
boys. It is not exactly lady-like, and you are growing so tall 
now that — ” 

But all further remonstrati on on the good lady’s part was 
cut short by the well-directed aim of a handful of apple-blos- 
soms, thrown up at her by Ida Chaloner’s own practiced hand 
as that young damsel slipped into the house with a laugh. 

How lovely she looked in the green light that glimmered 
through the vine-shaded windows of the small apartment that 
Mrs. Gresham loftily called the ‘‘ music-room,” because a 
spindle-legged piano, an invalid guitar, and two accordions 
belonging to some of the pupils were kept there. Her cheeks 
were slightly fiushed as she bent forward, and her long, slim 
fingers, slipping from chord to chord, seemed to move with a 
slow, graceful magic, while the drooping lashes of her eyes 
nearly swept her cheeks, while Eleanor, stitching away under 
the green boughs of the apple-trees all alone — for Angie had 
gone in with her dolls — listened to the grand melodies of the 
“ Cujus Animam,” and wondered where Geoffrey Moreland 
could possibly be. 

‘‘ He is going away so soon,” she thought, “ that surely he 
should givre me all the time he has to spare. Oh, if he weie 
only stationed somewhere nearer here — but I ought not to com- 
plain, since he is so well started in his profession, and — ” 

But here Mrs. Gresham broke the thread of her daughter’s 
reverie by appearing on the piazza behind her. 

Where is Geoffrey, Eleanor?” she asked. 

‘‘ I don’t know, mamma.” 

He is not with your father. I supposed, of course, he 
was here. ” 

“ Why ‘ of course,’ mamma?” asked Eleanor, coloring a 
little, yet smiling the while. 

“ Where else should he be but with you?” demanded Mrs. 
Gresham, somewhat tartly. 

“ Mamma, you forget that no more of an engagement has 
ever been spoken between us?” pleaded the girl. 

“That makes no difference: everybody knows that it’s a 
settled thing, as soon as ever Geoffrey is able to support a 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 67 

wife. But I really think there ought to be some more formal 
understanding between you before he goes away. 

“ There will be, I do not doubt/'’ was the answer that rose 
to Eleanor ^s lips, but she did not syllable it in words; some- 
how she felt that it was scarce befitting the maidenly reserve 
of her shy nature. Confident as she herself was of her cousin^s 
love, she did not like to express that confidence, even to so 
dear a friend as her mother. 

‘‘ It will be all right, I am sure, mamma, she said, gently, 
stooping to recover the little silver thimble which had rolled 
away in the grass at her feet. The Bible says, you know, 
that ‘perfect love casteth out all fears:’ and I think it casts 
out all doubt and distrust, too.” 

So Mrs. Gresham went on down to the garden to gather 
fresh lettuce for the evening dish of cool, crisp salad, and 
Eleanor remained under the moving canopy of the apple 
boughs, singing softly to herself, and thinking of a thousand 
sweet, intangible subjects, such as swarm unbidden into the 
fancy of an innocent girl of seventeen, whose heart had some- 
how vanished out of her own keeping. 

But through it all the troublesome question would recur 
again and again: 

‘‘ Where is Geoffrey? Why don’t he come to share these 
precious moments with me?” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

GEOFFREY MORELAN^D’S LOVE. 

Ida Chalofter had a fashion of throwing herself, soul and 
spirit, entirely into whatever occupation or amusement chanced 
to be the chosen one of the hour, and she was wrapped up in 
the soul-subduing harmonies of Rossini’s grand masterpiece, 
her eyes shining softly, and her flexible &igers, as it were, 
electrified, when the door opened softly behind her. She never 
turned her head. Probably it was one of the boys come after 
his accordion, or Angie in search of one of her books or play- 
things; but the footsteps, instead of receding from the apart- 
ment once more, as she had supposed would be the case, ad- 
vanced; nor were they those of school-boy or child. 

Still Ida went on with her practicing, until the new-comer 
paused at her side, and then looking up with a sort of impa- 
tience, she met the clear, hazel eyes of Geoffrey Moreland. 

He had grown into a tall, noble-looking young man, with a 
broad, square forehead, overhung with straight brown locks/ 
and a Napoleonic mouth and chin. Truly, Eleanor Gresham 


58 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAKT. 


had no cause to be ashamed of her lover; for, although scarce- 
ly reaching the Eubicon of twenty-one, Geoffrey Moreland was 
thoroughly a man in every sense of the word. 

“ Oh, it's you, is it, Geoff she said, carelessly. “ Whereas 
the use of interrupting me just now, when I^m so busy.^^’ 

Am I interrupting you, Ida?’^ 

“ Don^t you see that you are?^^ she returned, with a laugh. 

‘‘ At all events,^ ’he said, in a tone which seemed to her full 
of undue mortification, “ I shall not be here to interrupt you 
long.^^ 

“ That is true,^^ said Ida, a little soberly. Oh, Geoff, I 
shall be sorry when you are gone.^^ 

Ida — shall you really?^’ 

Of course I shall. YouTl write to Eleanor, wonT you?^^ 
she asked, eagerly. 

Geoffrey Moreland bit his lip. 

‘‘ I am not sure whether I shall or not. 

To be sure you will. Oh! I wish I were a man to go out 
into the world and make my fortune.'’’ 

A man’s fate is not necessarily fortunate. ” 

“ I would make it so, if I were a man,” said Ida, with 
sparkling eyes. ‘‘ Now, Geoff, do go off somewhere, and do 
something, and let me finish my practicing, or I shall be too 
late to go with Monty and Jamie up the mountain after 
trout. ” 

But Geoffrey Moreland, instead of taking this exceedingly 
plain hint, still stood leaning on the piano, nervously handling 
the music sheets which lay piled on its end. As Ida lifted her 
lovely liquid eyes to his, he sat down opposite to her in a 
cushioned easy-chair. 

Ida,” he said, come here. I have something to say to 
you.” 

She descended from the piano-stool and came to him, like 
an innocent little school-girl, standing before him with folded 
hands. 

‘‘ Ida,” he pursued, you said you would be sorry to lose 
me. Oh! Ida, if you could but know how cruelly hard it 
will be for me to lose you^ 

Yes, of course,” said Ida, wondering at the energy of ex- 
pression with which he spoke; we have been together for so 
long, you know, Geoff.” 

“It is not that, Ida,” he ejaculated, almost passionately. 
“ You will not understand me! I mean that if I lose you, I 
fose all that makes life endurable for me. Ida, I love you!” 

“Me, Geoff!” she said, in a sort of vague, child-like won- 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


59 


der — and then, as if her eyes had been suddenly opened, a 
deep crimson stole over her- cheeks, and a shy smile dimpled 
her lips. But I thought Eleanor — 

Eleanor he echoed, impatiently; “Eleanor — what is 
she to me? A dear cousin — the childish fancy of a boyhood I 
have long since outgrown — a cold, pulseless statue, correct 
and chill, as if she were carved in marble! There is life, and 
glow, and passion about you, Ida, and 1 love you — ay, by 
Heaven! better than my own existence. Speak to me, dearest; 
tell me that you will one day be my wife! Let my heart have 
at least one morsel of hope to feed. upon. Why do you not 
speak?'’^ he reiterated, almost wildly, while his pale cheek 
glowed almost into sudden flame, and his lip quivered almost 
convulsively. 

Ida still stood in the unconsciously graceful position which 
set off her dark, Spanish style so well, her hands clasped in 
one another, and the lashes drooping low over her flushed vel- 
vet cheeks. 

“ Geoff, she said, slowly, “ all this is nonsense. You 
know very well I don't care for you, except as I care for Monty 
and James, and all the rest of them — 

“ But, in time, Ida — 

“ Time will never change my sentiments, Geoffrey. I am 
only a child now, but one day I suppose I shall be a woman, 
and the man I marry will never be like you.'^ 

He bowed his face on his hands with a low groan. 

“ Don't be a goose," said Ida, superciliously. “ Eleanor is 
worth a dozen of me, and to Eleanor you are the one preux 
chevalier of the world. Now listen to me. I'll not tell her 
of this fool's fancy of yours; don't frown at me, Geoff. You 
know I never was afraid of you, and one of these days you will 
come back to your reason and common sense." 

“ Ida," cried the young man, passionately, “ what are you 
made of?" 

“ I don't know," she laughed; “ sugar and spice, I sup- 
pose, and all that's nice. That's what little girls are made 
of." 

“ Have you no feelings?" ^ 

“ Yes, lots of 'em. I feel very much surprised to think 
what a goose Geoffrey Moreland is, and very much pleased 
I've had an offer of marriage at fifteen, and very much dis- 
gusted that any man can be so idiotic as to prefer me to a 
human pearl ( like Eleanor Gresham. Why, look you," she 
added, with a sweet, vivacious laugh, “half an hour ago I 
was dressing dolls with Angie out on the grass, and here I am 


60 


IDA CHALOKEH^S HEAKT. 


elevated to what Mamma Gresham calls the highest destiny of 
womanhood. It’s too comical for anything.” 

And she laughed again, clasping her white, perfect hands 
above her head, and looking, Geoffrey Moreland thought, 
more bewitchingly lovely than ever. 

“ Ida,” he said, reproachfully, ‘‘ is this all you have to say 
to me?” 

Yes, every bit. I am tired of the sight of you now. Go 
off, Geoffrey, and let me finish my practicing. I’m afraid I 
shall be too late for the trout-party now, all through your non- 
sense.” 

And Ida Chaloner sat calmly down to the spindle-legged lit- 
tle piano, and arranged the sheets of music over again, while 
Geoffrey, rising slowly and sadly to his feet, left the room, his 
head drooping on his breast and the deepest shadow of despair 
upon every lineament of his face. To Ida Chaloner it might 
be very great ‘‘ fun,” but to him it was little less than death, 
he told himself. 

And Eleanor, sitting at her work where the afternoon sun 
laid bars of quivering gold on the short grass, and the shadow 
of the apple blossoms moved to and fro, saw him pass the gar- 
den gate, and go out into the road, his arms folded, and his 
head still hanging low on his breast, while a slight pang of 
disappointment rent her heart. 

‘‘ I wonder where Geoffrey is going?’ ^ she thought. He 
must surely have seen me here. But I must not be foolish; 
doubtless he has other things to occupy his mind than a fool- 
ish girl’s love. ” 

Geoffrey Moreland w^as strangely sad and changed during 
the brief week that remained of his stay at Deepdale Eectory. 
All the buoyant heart and merriment seemed to have passed 
out of him; he appeared alike indifferent to past, present, and 
future. 

‘‘ Geoff is so strange,” remonstrated the indignant Monty; 
‘‘ a fellow can’t so much as speak to him without being 
snubbed! He is too uppish for anything!” 

“ Hush! Monty!” responded his gentle sister Eleanor, her 
own heavy eyelids and pale cheeks bearing witness to her 
silent appreciation of the change. “ Geoffrey is very busy, 
and you must not speak of him in that way. ” 

‘‘ The boy has something on his mind,” was the Eeverend 
Milo Gresham’s internal conclusion. “ He can’t possibly have 
been getting into debt! But, perhaps, I had better have a 
talk with him.” 


TDA CH A looter’s HEART. 


61 


And so, when a fitting opportunity presented itself, the 
good clergyman broached the subject to Geoffrey IMoreland. 

My boy,^^ he said, kindly, are you quite certain that you 
have told me all that is in your heart 

“1 don^t know what you mean, uncle, said Geoffrey, 
shortly. 

“ Lately 1 have fancied that there was some concealed op- 
pression weighing you down,^^ explained Mr. Gresham, a little 
confused that his frank candor should not be met in the same 
spirit. “ And if there should be any unpaid debt or obliga- 
tion which makes you uncomfortable, 1 hope you will confide 
in me; and perhaps we two together can work out the busi- 
ness.-’^ 

Geoffrey prressed his nucleus hand. 

“ My dear sir,^^ he said, “ believe me, there is nothing of 
the sort which need give your kind heart pain. I— -I suppose 
I am a little low at leaving home for so long. It^s quite natu- 
ral, you know.’^ 

Yes, it is,^^ said the Eeverend Milo, quite relieved at 
Geoffrey ^s words. He told his wife, exultantly, that it was 
‘‘ all right, but Mrs. Gresham did not believe it. 

1 know better, quoth the good lady. She and her hus- 
band, with Eleanor and Ida, walked to the railway depot with 
Geoffrey Moreland the morning that he started on his first en- 
trance into the world of business and professional endeavor. 
Eleanor was pale and quiet, and said but little; but Ida, her 
beautiful young face shadowed by a broad hat with pink rib- 
bons floating away from it, was full qf exuberant glee, some- 
times running on in advance, with Jowler, the big Newfound- 
land dog, sometimes hanging back to gather wild flowers 
along the country road, or to peep into tlie nest of some bird, 
deeply hidden in the hedge-rows. 

Mrs. Gresham watched her nephew in puzzled silence, as he 
walked mutely along by Eleanor’s side. Just before they 
reached the little platform, she beckoned her daughter aside. 

“ Eleanor,” she whispered, ‘‘has he said anything to you 
about — about an engagement?” 

“ Mamma!” 

The blood rushed readily to the young girl’s transparent 
forehead. 

“ Answer, my dear — yes, or no!” insisted Mrs. Gresham, 
laying her hand impressively on her daughter’s arm. 

“ No, mamma,” answered Eleanor, almost inaudibly, her 
head hanging down, and her eyes suffused with tears, which 


62 IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 

had their source half in mortification and half in wounded 
love. 

Mrs. Gresham walked forward to Geoffrey, and slipped her 
arm through his. She was determined to solve the mystery of 
this problem. 

Geoffrey/^ she said, gravely, “ what does it all mean?^^ 

What does all what mean, aunt?^^ he demanded, a little 
brusquely. 

‘‘ Your changed manner — your strange avoidance of the 
topics which were once most interesting to you — your sudden 
alienation from Eleanor. Have you ceased to love her?^^ 

“ Mamma I'’ pleaded poor Eleanor, in an agony of shame, 
as she hid her burning face on Ida’s shoulder. 

‘‘ Geoffrey,” went on Mrs. Gresham, heedless of her daugh- 
ter’s voice of entreaty, ‘‘ 1 insist upon an explanation!” 

You are very easily obeyed, madame,” said Geoffrey, 
turning pale and collected to the little group which surround- 
ed him. ‘‘Yes, there is no use in further disguising the mat- 
ter. I am changed, altered — alienated, if you will, and the 
secret is that I love with my whole heart, not Eleanor, but Ida 
Chaloner, and shall continue to love her, and her only, until 
my life’s end!” 

And with a bitterly courteous bow he swung himself on to 
the platform of the train, now “ slacking up ” in front of the 
simple little country station, and the next minute was whirled 
away from them. 

The dismay which his parting words had infused into the lit- 
tle group can be more easily imagined than described. Mr. 
and Mrs. Gresham stared at each other as if they could hardly 
credit the evidence of their senses. 

Eleanor lifted her head from Ida’s shoulder as if to shrink 
back from her, but the young girl clasped her arms yet more 
tightly round Eleanor’s waist. 

“Darling Eleanor,” she cried, speaking eagerly and im- 
petuously, “ it was not my fault — indeed, indeed it was not. 
1 was more surprised than you can be when he first told me 
that — that he loved me. I don’t believe he does, Eleanor — 
it’s only a fancy that will die out in time. He loves you really, 
and you alone. Eleanor, I could not help it. You will not 
be angry with me?” 

Eleanor lifted her heavy eyes to Ida’s beautiful eager face. 

“How can I be, Ida?” she asked, sadly. “Yes, I know 
you are more lovely than I, and it is not strange that he 
should admire you; but — but I did love him so dearly. Ida, 
Ida, shall I ever be happy again?” 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


63 


And the burst of tears which followed relieved the over- 
charged heart, as the summer rain refreshes the parched land- 
scape of August — while Ida, still clasping the slender, droop- 
ing form to her heart, murmured sweet, unintelligible words 
to her, like the mother soothing her infant. 

Yes, Ida was forgiven her unconscious fault. Eleanor was 
too just and generous to attach blame where it was not rightly 
due; but Mrs. Gresham could not lightly overlook the cause 
of her daughter's troubles. 

1 knew she was growing too pretty, said Mrs. Gresham, 
as she sat beside Eleanor in the twilight of the summer even- 
ing; ‘‘ but I did not — no, I could not suppose that our Geof- 
frey^s heart would be the first target she would aim at.^^ 

“ Mamma,^"^ said' Eleanor, who sat by the open door-way, 
through which the door-yard was visible, look there. 

She pointed with her forefinger, from which, as Mrs. Gresh- 
am had observed, she had removed the ring which Geoffrey 
Moreland had placed there long ago. Mrs. Gresham came to 
her side, and with her eye followed the direction indicated by 
the slender finger. 

There sat Ida on the stone-flagged walk, with Angie leaning 
over her shoulder, and both children — for children they were, 
to all intents and purposes — absorbed in the frolics of a family 
of small gray kittens, while Ida^s sweet laughter mingled with 
Angie’s shrill, childish tones of merriment. 

Mamma,” said Eleanor, in accents of gentle reproach, 
“ never say that again about Ida. She aiming at anybody’s 
heart! Why, she is a child like Angie — only fifteen years 
old!” 

She is a born coquette, nevertheless,” said Mrs. Gresham. 

‘‘But she has never yet felt her powers,” insisted Eleanor. 

“ Did you ever notice what a way she has of using her eyes 
— glancing up, and then down again, and letting the lids 
droop half-way over them? Why, there isn’t a man living 
who could resist that little motion; it says as plain as so many 
words, ‘ Come, flirt with me. ’ ” 

“ It is quite unstudied, mother; she has had that trick ever 
since she first came here, a child of ten years old; I think it 
was born with her. ” 

“ I don’t like it,” persisted Mrs. Gresham. “ 1 shall 
always feel uneasy about the pupils now, if they are old enough 
to care for anything besides hats and balls.” 

“ Mamma, Ida means no harm.” 

“ A woman can’t help making mischief,” asserted Mrs. 
Gresham, impatiently; “particularly a beautiful woman — 


64 


IDA CHALOKDR^S HEART. 


and that^s what oar Ida is going to be. It began with Eve, 
and I suppose it will go on until the world^s end.^’ 

‘‘ But you are unreasonable, mamma. How can Ida help 
being beautiful?^^ 

“ You are determined to take that child’s part, Eleanor.” 

“ Because I think she does not deserve any blame in this 
particular instance, mamma. Ho not suppose that I do not 
feel this thing,” Eleanor added, in a voice so strangely mourn- 
ful that it pierced like a knife to the mother’s heart; “ it has 
blighted the current of my whole life, but I feel I naust not 
blame Ida unjustly.” 

Mrs. Gresham stooped to press her lips to her daughter’s 
cheek, and then went away with her eyes full of tears. 

“ Geoffrey will discover his mistake one day,” she thought 
to herself, “ and he will come back to claim the heart he now 
throws aside, dazzled by the shine of Ida Ohaloner’s beautiful 
eyes. Then, perhaps, it will be too late!” 

Mrs. Gresham had never abandoned her old custom of visit- 
ing her children’s apartment the last thing before retiring her- 
self to rest, and that night she was relieved to find Eleanor 
sweetly sleeping, though with the traces of tears yet upon her 
long brown eyelashes, and a cheek as white as the white roses 
in the garden border without; while Ida, with one cheek pil- 
lowed on her hand, and the softest carmine glowing beneath 
her transparent skin, held beneath the other arm something- 
clasped tightly to her bosom. Mrs. Gresham softly lifted the 
counterpane to ascertain what it might be — it was Marguerite, 
the doll! 

“ Eleanor was right — she is nothing but a child, after all,” 
thought Mrs. Gresham. And when she went away, the 
shadow of a soft forgiving kiss was upon Ida Chaloner’s crim- 
son cheek. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE FIRST KISS. 

Papa, I think he is the nicest pupil you ever had!’^ cried 
Angie Gresham one evening, as she climbed joyfully into her 
father’s lap. He mended the china sugar-bowl in the tea- 
set so beautifully, and he says he will teach me how to ride on 
his pony, Ali Baba!” 

“ Whom are you talking about?” said Ida Chaloner, who 
had just returned from a week’s visit to some young girl of 
the neighborhood. ‘‘ Who is it that is so nice, and mends 
broken china, and gives lessons in equestrian exercises?” 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 65 

‘‘Why,’’ cried Angie, gleefully, “it’s papa’s new pupil, 
Eex Delamere.” 

“ Angeline,” reproved her mother, looking up from the 
basket of stockings she was engaged in repairing. 

“ Mr. Eeginald, then,” said Angie, a little subdued; “ but 
he told me to call him Eex. ” 

“ And pray,” interposed Ida, “ who is Eex, or — Eeginald, 
or whatever his name may be? Tell me about him, Eleanor.” 

“ He is a young gentleman — ” 

“A boy, my dear,” said Mrs. Gresham. “Papa doesn’t 
like you to magnify his pupils into anything but the children 
they are.” 

“ He told me he was in his nineteenth year, mamma.” 

“ Well, my dear, what’s that but a boy? To be sure, I 
wish your papa would refuse to receive any one over sixteen; 
but as this one came all the way from the West Indies, and 
really seemed to know of no other place where he can be per- 
fected in the higher mathematics and ancient languages and 
still enjoy the privileges of a home, I don’t see that we could 
very well close our doors against him.” 

“ His guardian proffers a most liberal remuneration as 
weli,’^ added Mr. Gresham, “ and he himself seems a fine, 
fra ilk-hearted young fellow.” 

“ Will he stay long?” asked Ida, indifferently. 

“ Six i-ionths, at the end of which time his guardian, Mr. 
Eaynsford, wishes to take him the tour of Europe.” 

“ He’s as rich as Croesus,” interrupted Monty Gresham, 
who was leaning over the back of Ida’s chair. “ He’s got no 
end of an allowance, and wears his shirt buttoned with dia- 
monds as big as hazel nuts.” 

“Monty,” remonstiiiited Eleanor, “you’re getting into 
such a way of exaggeration lately!” 

“ Well, they’re as large as a small pea, any way!” said 
Monty, somewhat discomfited. “ He’s a generous fellow, too, 
and gave me a diamond ring, but papa made me give it back. 
There’s none of the milksop about him, if he is a creole!” 

“ Montmorenci, don’t talk so,” said Mr. Gresham. “ He 
is no more a creole than yourself; and I am at a loss to know 
your meaning when you use the expression ‘ milksop.’ ” 

“ It means a chap that hasn’t got any starch about him, 
papa — a Miss Nancy.” 

“ When will you learn to express yourself more euphonious- 
ly, my son?” sighed the Eeverend Mr. Gresham. 

“ And he keeps his pony over to the Deepdale Tavern 
stables — such a spanking trotter as it is!” cried Jamie. 


66 IDA CHALOKEK^S HEART. 

Papa, it; can do a mile in two-forty easily, without once 
breaking!’^ 

“ I dare say/^ said Mr. Gresham, ironically. I am almost 
sorry about the pony, but the boy seems so attached to it. It 
seems he brought it from Cuba with him."^^ 

Ida, who had long since ceased to be at all interested in the 
peculiarities of the new pupil, was cutting out a new style of 
paper doll for Angie’s special edification, carrying on a whis- 
pered conversation with her the while, when the door opened 
and the new pupil himself appeared. 

Reginald Delamere was tall and well-shaped, with dark-blue 
eyes, hair so darkly brown that it was almost black, and a 
smooth, sunburned face, with a deep dimple on the chin — a 
handsome, frank-looking young fellow, who looked as near 
twenty-one as he did eighteen. His dress~a stylish demi- 
toilet, having the stamp of metropolitan make and fit — con- 
trasted singularly with the costume of those surrounding him, 
and there was something graceful and well-born in the very 
motion of his head as he glanced in some surprise around the 
room. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,^^ he said to Mr. Gresham, “ I was 
not aware you were with company.^’ 

“ Neither am I, Reginald,’^ said Mr. Gresham, smiling 
pleasantly. ‘‘ There are no strangers here — this is Ida Chalo- 
ner, one of our own family, who has been temporarily absent; 
Ida, shake hands with the new pupil.” 

Ida, whose right hand was occupied with a pair of scissors 
and several sheets of gayly colored tissue paper, extended her 
left without turning her head. 

How do you do?” said Ida. “ Take care — you are step- 
ping on the dolFs fringed shawl.” 

Reginald Delamere looked at the young girl as if he were 
not quite certain where, in the scale of femininity, he might 
class her. 

Angie had told him about Ida, and he had drawn a picture 
of her in his mind as a romping school-girl of ten or eleven — 
and this exquisitely beautiful young creature with the shy, 
gazelle-like eyes of a woman, and the habits and occupation of 
a child, puzzled him in no common degree. 

So completely bewildered was he that he might have stood 
staring at her for fifteen minutes or so longer if Mr. Gresham 
had not considerately come to his aid. 

‘‘ 1 think you were wishing to ask me some question, Regi- 
nald?” he said, good-naturedly. 

Yes, sir,” answered the new pupil, in some confusion. 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


67 


Plane, the carpenter, says he could very easily put up a 
board stable for Ali Baba, at the end of your hennery, that 
would answer, at least, until the cold weather — that is, if you 
had no objection. The cost would be a mere trifle.^'’ 

“ And what may be your idea of a mere trifle, Reginald 

“ Fifty dollars, sir.^"" 

‘‘ 1 call fifty dollars a pretty good sum, my boy,^^ said the 
clergyman, mildly; “ but do as you choose, I have no objec- 
tion.^'’ 

“ Then Plane shall come out to see about it to-morrow?^’ 

As you please — only remember, Reginald, that Ali Baba 
must not interfere with Xenophon and Euripides. 

“ He shall not, sir. Angie, the pony is tied outside; will 
you come and take your first lesson?^'' 

Angie dropped her paper dolls, and ran joyfully for her sun- 
bonnet, while Ida, coming over to Eleanor^s side of the room, 
began to tell her some particulars of her visit, with her head 
in Eleanor^s lap, and her lovely eyes looking eagerly up into 
the sad blue orbs of the other. 

She had forgotten the new pupil as completely as if he had 
never existed; but he had not forgotten her! 

Throughout the whole of the riding lesson, Reginald Dela- 
mere’s mind was reverting to the tableau vivant he had just 
witnessed in Mrs. Gresham^s homely little sitting-room — the 
girl with eyes that reminded him of old Spanish portraits he 
had seen as a child, skin like velvet, and hair so black that it 
caught a purplish gloss in the light — the girl whose attitudes 
were a series of unconscious pictures, and whose voice was full 
of musical cadences. Mr. Gresham had called Reginald Dela- 
mere a boy, but he was not a boy. The good clergyman had 
made no allowances for the tropical climate in which he had 
grown up — a climate which develops mind and body, as the 
crystal-domed roof of a hot-house develops vegetation into 
premature bloom and maturity. Reginald Delamere was in 
his nineteenth year and had left boyhood far behind him — and 
here was where the Reverend Milo Gresham made his mistake. 

Reginald Delamere was still, as it were, under the influence 
of this spell several days subsequently, when, Trotting along 
through the woods, about a mile from the rectory, on Ali 
Baba, he overtook Ida Chaloner, who, up to this time, had 
vouchsafed him very little of her company. 

She was walking, with a languid, elastic grace, along the 
footpath, a Shetland shawl thrown over her well - formed 
shoulders, and her dress, of coarse calico, quite short enough 
to display feet that were almost slender and small enough to 


68 


IDA CHALONER^S HEAilT. 


wear Cinderella^s magic slippers. She wore no covering on 
her head, but a straw hat, hanging by its ribbon over her left 
arm, was ready to do its office when she had got beyond the 
friendly green awning of the woods; and the exercise of walk- 
ing had given an exquisite crimson to her cheek, while her 
eyes sparkled like tiny pools of dark water, with stars hidden 
in their depths, from under the long fringe of lashes that 
nearly veiled them. Eeginald looked at her with the admiring 
adoration which devout Catholics accord to their saints. To 
him she was a living picture — a moving poem. 

At the same moment, attracted by the muffled sound of the 
horse ^s feet on the mossy path, she turned her head and 
smiled. 

Reginald sprung from his horse, and throwing the bridle- 
rein on his left arm, came to her side. 

I may walk the rest of the way with you. Miss Chaloner?^^ 

“ Yes, if you prefer walking to riding on such a hot day as 
this.^^ 

‘‘ I might not, other things being equal, •but — 

“ Oh!’^ said Ida, dryly, “ a compliment is intended, I sup- 
pose 

Not a compliment — only the truth. Truth may be com- 
plimentary sometimes. Miss Chaloner.^^ 

“ I wish you wouldnT call me Miss Ohaloner!^^ 

His eyes sparkled at the implied approach toward a greater 
intimacy. 

‘‘You think it is too formal he asked. 

“ It makes no difference to me, one way or the other, she 
answered; “ but Mr. Gresham don’t like it. Every one calls 
me Ida.” 

“ Every one!” Reginald Delamere bit his lip at the idea of 
being placed on the same footing with “ every one.” 

“ I suppose Mr. Gresham is your cousin?” he asked. 

“ No, he is not,” said Ida. “He is no relation at all. I 
have no relations.” 

“ Neither have I.” 

“ Haven’t you?” Ida looked up with some interest into his 
face. “ How does that happen?” 

“ I don’t know; they all died, I suppose.” 

“ And I don’t think mine ever existed,” laughed Ida. 
“ It’s rather forlorn, isn’t it?” 

“ Well, no; I don’t know that it is,” said Reginald, 
thoughtfully. “ I do not mind it.” 

“ Ah! that is because you are rich.” 

“ And you?” 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


G9 


said Ida, frankl}^ I am as poor as — as Job^s cat, if 
you know exactly how poor that is. I haveri^t anything. If 
I want a shoestring or a stick of candy, I have to go and ask 
Mr. Gresham for two cents. It must be nice to be rich.^"' 

She spoke dreamily", looking out toward the horizon, dimly 
visible through the trunks of the old trees beyond, while into 
her heart came the dim, vague longings for a f uture~a definite 
career of her own, which should one day lead to independence, 
which comes to every woman worthy of the name.^^ 

“ But,^^ hazarded Keginald Delamere, ‘‘all this is very 
strange. Would you think it impertinent if I were to ask you 
to tell me your history?^^ 

“ It is no secret,^'’ said Ida, bitterly. “ Everybody in Deep- 
dale knows how friendless and solitary and alone I am, except 
for the charity of those on whom I have not even the shadow 
of a claim.'’^ 

And then, leaning against a stone wall covered with silver- 
green lichens and mosses, with the shifting green lights of the 
sunset falling on her face, Ida Chaloner told him the strange, 
romantic story of her life. 

“ I never minded it when 1 was a child, she said, sadly. 
“ In fact, I never thought much about it until this spring, 
when Mrs. Gresham talked to me one day when the family 
were all away and told me that I ought to begin seriously to 
think about my future. Future! I don’t wan»t to think 
about it. Oh, I wish 1 could always have stayed a child!” 

And the dark eyes, glittering through momentary mist, 
looked more radiant than ever. 

“ Come, let us walk on again,” she said, catching up the 
straw hat that had fallen at her feet. “ I don’t want to talk 
about it any more.” 

“ I don’t wonder at it,” said Delamere, recovering the reins 
of Ali Baba, who had been peacefully cropping grass in the 
shaded wood and dell. “ But, Ida, I am glad you have told 
me. ” 

“Why?” 

“ Isn’t it a sign that you have reposed some confidence in 
me?” 

“ No confidence at all,” said Ida, bluntly. “ Didn’t 1 tell 
you that everybody in Deepdale knew it.” 

“ But not from your lips?” 

“ That makes no difference.” 

“ I think it does. But, Ida, what I was going to say was 
this: We are both alone in the world — we are both without 
living relations. I have a guardian, to be sure, but he cares 


70 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


no more for me than he does for any other mercantile charge 
or parcel intrusted to his care, so, after all, it amounts to the 
same thing. We can sympathize with each other, Ida, or 
shall we not he friends?’^ 

There was something in the tone of his voice that appealed 
to Ida^s heart — she took his offered hand. 

“ Yes,^^ she said, impulsively, “ we will be friends.^’ 

And Ida put up her cherry lips as Keginald Delamere in- 
clined his tall head toward her and sealed the mutual compact 
with a genuine, hearty kiss. 

Eeginald colored deeply, while a thrill seemed to pass through 
every nerve of his body. To her it was such a kiss as she 
might have given to Mr. Gresham, or Angie, or even the doll 
Marguerite. 

‘‘ Ida,^^ he cried, “ did you really mean that?^^ 

“ Of course I did. Oh, take care, Eeginald — you hurt my 
hand.^^ 

He pressed the slim fingers reverently to his lips. 

I would not hurt you for a king^s ransom, he murmured. 

Take care you donT then,^^ she answered, merrily. “ Oh, 
there goes Ali Baba’s foot right through the crown of my 
straw hat — and it was only last Sunday Eleanor was saying it 
was too shabby to wear many more weeks. What will Mrs. 
Gresham say?’^ 

“ There are plenty of hats in New York,^’ said Eeginald. 
‘‘ I’ll write on for one to be sent you.” 

You’ll do nothing of the sort,” answered Ida, emphatic- 
ally. It’s bad enough to be without a hat, but I should be 
without a head if you were to do that.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

Mr. and Mrs. Gresham would take it off,” laughed Ida, 
“ particularly Mrs, There, come along, we have only a little 
way to walk in the sunshine, and I dare say it won’t hurt me.” 

Eeginald was sorry that she had passed out of the confiden- 
tial mood, in which she was so sweet, into this gay, rallying 
way; but he had no choice but to adapt himself to the present 
phase, and walked along, his tropical young head nearly 
turned by Ida’s loveliness and soft vivacity. 

“ The most beautiful creature I ever saw in my life,” he 
thought to himself, as with a gay wave of the hand she disap- 
jDeared into the house, leaving him to convey Ali Baba to his 
quarters beyond the hennery. 

Mrs. Gresham was looking very grave when Ida came into 
the house. 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEAET. 71 

Ida/^ she said, ‘‘ was that Eeginald Delame re you came 
up the hill with?^^ 

‘‘ Yes,^'’ said Ida, carelessly, ‘‘Angie, see here; these are 
the very red berries you wanted for your necklace. I found 
them ill the woods. 

“ Did you walk all the way through the woods with Eegi- 
nald Delamere?^^ persisted Mrs. Gresham. 

“ No, ma^am; only from the big oak that was struck by 
lightning last year. 

“ What were you lalking about?^"' 

“Oh, lots of things! I cair't remember all we talked 
about. 'He led Ali Baba, and vve walked and chatted. We 
compared notes about our lives, and agreed to be great 
friends. ^ ’ 

“ It strikes me you are getting intimate on a very short ac- 
quaintance, Ida.^^ 

“Oh! but you haven’t heard it all,” said Ida, demurely. 
“ We shook hands.” 

“Oh, Ida! Ida! will you never learn propriety?” sighed 
Mrs. Gresham, really distressed. “A young lady’s hand 
should be is precious as her lips. ” 

“ That isn’t the worst of it, ma’am,” said Ida, mischievous- 
ly. “ He kissed me!” 

“ Ida Chaloner! that young man kissed you?” 

“ No, I’m wrong. He didn’t kiss me.” 

“ I am very much relieved to hear it,” said Mrs. Gresham, 
with a long breath. 

“ It was the other way entirely,” went on Ida, roguishly, 
watching Mrs. Gresham’s shocked face from beneath her long 
lashes. “ / kissed //im.” 

“ Ida!” 

“ Well, where’s the harm?” said the girl, defiantly. “ I 
kiss Monty half a dozen times a day, and Papa Gresham, too. ” 

“That is a totally different thing,” cried Mm. Gresham. 
“Oh! Ida, Ida, what shall I do with you?” 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Ida. “ 1 shall have to be 
sent out as a governess, I suppose. ” 

“ As a governess!” groaned the clergyman’s good wife. 
“ You are just about as fit to be a governess as that white kit- 
ten there, with the blue ribbon roand its neck. When will 
you leai’n that you are no longer a child?” 

“ Mamma,” whispered Angie, who was sorely puzzled by 
this unusual scene, “ what has Ida done?” 

“ Nothing, child — nothing that I can tell you. Go off to 
your play. ’ ’ 


72 


IDA CHALOKEE^S HEAET. 


7 can, then/’ said Ida, pouting out her cherry-red lips. 
‘‘I kissed Eeginald Delamere! There! Tin not ashamed 
of it.” 

Mrs. Gresham, with a look of reproach, took Angeline’s 
hand and led her out of the room, while Ida, scarce conscious 
whether she was the more angry or amused, caught up the 
kitten and ran out into the garden. 

“ I don’t know what they all mean,” said Ida, with red- 
dened cheeks and eyes that had the startled look of a wild deer. 


CHAPTEE X. 

ME. GEESHAM EEMONSTEATES. 

“ Mamma,” pleaded Angie, “ may I go with Ida? Do tell 
me what it all means. ” 

But Mrs. Gresham, without volunteering any explanation, 
sent the child out to feed a brood of small, downy- winged mor- 
sels, by courtesy called chickens, which haunted the shed 
where Ali Baba was domesticated, and herself went straight 
to her husband’s study. 

‘‘ Milo,” she said, “ I want to speak to you.” 

“ 111 a few minutes, Selina. I have just got to the foot of 
this troublesome question, which — ” 
jVozVy Milo, and at once.” 

The Eeverend Mr. Gresham laid down his books, with a 
vague wonder whether or not the house was on fire; or, if not, 
what was the meaning of Selina’s unwonted haste. 

“ What is it, my dear?” he said, gradually rousing himself 
from the wells of learning wherein his soul was plunged. 

“ Why, it is just exactly what I have all along foreseen!” 
and Mrs. Gresham recounted to her husband the whole story 
of Ida’s faults and failings. ‘‘It’s perfectly ridiculous of 
young Delamere,” she wound up by saying, “ and worse than 
ridiculous of Ida. ” 

“ My dear,” said the Eeverend Milo, biting meditatively at 
the end of a pen, “it’s very sad, and very awkward, to be 
sure; but I don’t see that Ida is any more to blame than Eegi- 
nald.” 

“ That is always the way,” said Mrs. Gresham, despairing- 
ly; “ you never would see any fault in Ida. Don’t 3 ^ou under- 
stand how necessary it is for a woman to preserve her dig- 
nity?’' 

“ A woman! Nay, dear, our Ida is nothing but a child.” 

“ She is woman enough to make trouble among our pupils, 
you will find.” 


IDA OHALONER^S HEART. 73 

“ And as for dignity/^ went on Mr. Gresham, I doubt if 
the child knows what the word means. 

“ Then it is high time she learned/*^ said Mrs. Gresham, 
with asperity. 

‘‘ Yes, you are right there, my dear,^^ said the Reverend 
Milo, with a troubled countenance. ‘‘ 1 must speak to her, 
and then, if there is likely to be any continuance of this 
trouble, 1 see nothing for it but to send Reginald to Doctor 
Daytona’s. 

Dr. Dayton was a wise and learned dominie, who lived about 
two miles beyond, and was at the head of a “ Collegiate In- 
stitute for Young Gentlemen, which quite looked down on 
the Reverend Milo Gresham ^s modest little establishment. 

‘‘ It would be a pity, too,’^ said Mrs. Gresham. ‘‘ Mr. 
Raynsford is very liberal, and I really felt disposed to like 
Reginald very much; he is so obliging and gentlemanly, and 
the children are so fond of him. Besides, you say his capacity 
is excellent.-’^ 

“Far beyond the average,'’^ said Mr. Gresham, sighing; 
“ his education, apparently, is quite comjilete, saving and 
excepting the trifling polish he requires in the matter of the 
ancient languages, and it is a pleasure to direct the mental 
efforts of one who shows such quick appreciation and scholarly 
intellect. However, and Mr. Gresham rose from his seat 
reluctantly, “ I suppose it is better to exercise a little gentle 
authority in this instance. Where is Reginald?^^ 

“ Are you going to speak to him flrst?^^ 

“ Certainly, and then, if necessary, to Ida. 

“ He was in the garden when I came across the entry. He 
has a fancy for reading his French books out under the old 
pear-tree. ^ ’ 

“Very well, I will go to him there, said Mr. Gresham; 
“ it will savor less of obnoxious formality than to summon 
him to my presence.’’^ 

Meanwhile, Ida, hurrying from the recollection of her lect- 
ure, without any settled goal or object, passed down the lilac- 
shaded walks that led through the garden of Deepdale Rec- 
tory, to a shady spot, in which a hoary old pear-tree threw its 
umbrella-like canopy over a corner where lilies of the valley 
swung their bells, like fairy chimes of silver, and pale-blue 
forget-me-nots grew. A rustic seat of twisted cedar boughs, 
ingeniously constructed by Geoffrey Moreland and his cousin 
Montmorenci years ago, was placed against the trunk of this 
tree, and here, reclining in the cool shadows, his dark hair 
pushed back from his brow, and his eye fixed not on the copy 


74 : 


IDA CHALOKEE’S HEAET. 


of Corneille that was in his hand, but on the blue vacancy 
of the sky beyond, Reginald Delamere was living over again, 
in fancy, the delicious hour through which he had just passed. 
He could not study, for the dimpled face of Ida Chaloner 
came like a dream of beauty between his eye and the page. 
He could not think, for her sweet voice sounded like an 
echoed refrain through the leafy murmurs of the drooping 
boughs that surrounded him. 

A first love is like the measles, people experience it in very 
different degrees. Some have it lightly, others suffer from its 
most aggravated type. Reginald was taking it very severely 
indeed. 

What was his surprise, in glancing up at what seemed to 
him the casual stir of the lilac foliage that walled in this syl- 
van retreat, to see Ida Chaloner in the attitude of a surprised 
forest nymph, holding back the branches with one hand, and 
looking as if she were inclined to shrink back and disappear 
from vision. At first he thought it but an optical delusion, 
the natural consequence of an absorbed meditation; then he 
knew that it was an actual reality. 

He sprung instantly to his feet. 

“ Ida!^^ 

She laughed, yet blushed in the same moment. 

I did not know you were here, Reginald; but I shall not 
go back for all that. 

Go back! I should think not. Sit down here in the cool 
shade: you look flushed. 

And well 1 may."” She did not accept the proffered seat, 
but leaned against the heavy trunk of the pear-tree, twisting a 
red clover-stalk round and round on her slender fingers. ‘‘ Oh, 
Reginald, such a lecture as I have had!’^ 

“ What do you mean, Idar’^ 

‘‘ Mrs. Gresham has scolded me within an inch of my life,^^ 
cried Ida, with a little petulant curve of her lips. “ I am all 
that is wicked and monstrous — and she don^’t fairly know 
whether she is to send me to a lunatic asylum or get some 
situation for me as plain cook and laundress. ’’ 

“ Scolded you, Ida! and for what?’’ 

It’s you that ought to be scolded, I think,” said the girl, 
laughing hysterically; ‘‘ for my sole offense consisted in walk- 
ing home with you and Ali Baba — that, and some other 
things,” she added, consciously. 

‘‘ Ida,” said the young man, that is intolerable!” 

‘'Just what I say myself,” said Ida, in an aggrieved tone of 
voice. 


IDA CHALONEK'S HEAET. 


75 


I will not permit it’’ 

‘"'Yes, but you can't help yourself 

‘‘ 1 can— and 1 will, if occasion offers/' asserted Reginald 
Delamere. 

He did look very manly and capable of fighting his own 
way, as he stood there, with darkening brow and blue eyes 
growing almost black in the excitement of the moment. 

Ida looked up at him, unconsciously admiring the decision 
of his tone, and wishing within herself that slie were a man 
also. 

You may, perhaps," she said, with a sigh; “but what 
can 1 do?" 

“ The best thing for you to do just now, my dear," said a 
mild and moderate voice close to them, “is to go back to the 
house. 1 want a quiet talk with Reginald by our two selves." 

And Mr. Gresham, parting a little screen of leaves with his 
white, plump hands, quietly stepped into the secluded spot. 

Ida burst out laughing. Reginald colored a hot, angry 
crimson. 

Don't send me up to the house, Mr. Gresham," she plead- 
ed; “I shall only be scolded there." 

“ And don't you deserve it, Ida?" asked the good clergy- 
man, very gravely. 

“ No; I don't think I do. What for?" 

“ For your very foolish and ill-considered conduct, Ida." 

“ What have I done?" hashed out the girl, suddenly draw- 
ing her slender figure up to its full height, and looking at Mr. 
Gresham with flashing eyes. “ I have walked with Reginald 
through the woods! I have — yes, I have kissed him once. 
What of it? Don't Angie do the same thing? Wasn't she out 
with Reginald half the morning yesterday? Didn't he kiss her 
before your very eyes when he took her off the horse at the 
front door?" 

“ My dear," said the clergyman, “ is it possible that you do 
not perceive the wide difference between yourself and Angie?" 

A sort of vague, semi-defined consciousness seemed to come 
over Ida at his words. Her eyes fell, the rich color deepened 
on her cheek, and she made a movement as if to retreat, but 
checked herself instantly. 

“We have neither of us done anything of which we need be 
ashamed, sir," said Reginald, haughtily. 

“lam quite assured of that, my boy," said Mr. Gresham; 
“but the world looks at these things quite differently. Do 
vOLi know what this same censorious world would say of this?" 
' “No, sir." 


76 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


‘‘ It would say that I had maneuvered to entrap my wealthy 
pupil/ ^ 

“ How entrap him, sir?^^ questioned Ida, still totally un- 
conscious of the meaning of her guardian. 

‘‘Go up to the house, Ida; you have heard quite enough,^^ 
said Mr. Gresham; and he spoke so resolutely that, anxious as 
she was to hear the conversation out, Ida did not venture to 
linger. 

“ You see how ignorant she is of life and its ways, Regi- 
nald, said the good man, looking after the light calico dress 
as it fluttered up the garden-path in the distance. 

“ She is an angel, sir!^^ cried Reginald, enthusiastically. 

“Granted; but angels know very little of the world,"^ re- 
turned Mr. Gresham, rather sarcastically. “ Do you think it 
is right to take advantage of her child-like innocence 

“ I, sir? I take advantage of it?^^ 

“You see, Reginald, pursued Mr. Gresham, “ it is exactly 
as I was saying. The world will assert that I entrapped you 
— a wealthy, inexperienced boy — into an eiigagement with a 
girl who is not only penniless, but obscure — ay, and even 
nameless, because her maintenance is a burden upon my slen- 
der means — 

“ Then it would be a lie, sir,^^ interrupted Reginald — “ a 
false lie!'’^ 

“You and I know that it. would, Reginald; but how could 
we prove our knowledge? There is no method of stopping the 
world^s foul tongue. We must anticipate these things before 
the actual danger comes. Will you promise me to avoid Ida^s 
society, except as you meet her in the presence of us all?’^ 

“ I can make no such promise, sir."’"’ 

“ Regiuald,^^ said Mr. Gresham, with a disturbed counte- 
nance, “ surely you have not been fool enough to lose your 
common sense because Ida Chaloner has dark eyes and win- 
ning gypsy ways!^^ 

“ I have been wise enough, sir,^^ said Reginald, a little bit- 
terly, “ to appreciate the charms of the most beautiful creat- 
ure I ever beheld. 

“ Why, Reginald, she is a mere child — just past her fifteenth 
year, ^ ^ 

“ She loill be a woman, sir, such as you see but once in a 
century; and if untiring effort and constant devotion will 
win her — she shall be mine!’^ 

“ Dear me, dear me!^^ said Mr. Gresham, in sore perturba- 
tion, “ what is to be the end of all this? You must not stay 
here a day longer — I must write to Doctor Dayton immediate- 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


77 


ly, and your home must be with him until we can get a re- 
sponse to the communication which I shall at once write to 
Mr. Eaynsford, your guardian, in London. 

“ You are going to betray me, then?^^ said the young man, 
with a suppressed light of anger in his eyes. 

‘‘Not betray you, my boy; that isn’t the correct word to 
use. 1 am going to rescue you, if possible, from the effects of 
your own hot-headed rashness. Believe me, I shall be very 
heartily sorry to lose you; but it is for your own good. I will 
drive over with you to the Collegiate Institute this very even- 
ing if you will get ready.” 

Reginald Delamere made no objection; he took this decision 
of his temporary guardian so quietly that the good man half 
hoped he had unnecessarily alarmed himself. 

“ After all,” he soliloquized within himself as he was driv- 
ing home from the Collegiate Institute, after having com- 
mitted the handsome young rebel to the scholastic charge of 
Dr. Dayton, a plump, elderly gentleman, with a white cravat 
and a great deal of pompousness of manner — “ perhaps it was 
nothing but the natural contradictory impulses of a spoiled 
boy which made him speak as he did. Very likely he’ll forget 
her the moment he is out of her influence, and we shall have 
alarmed ourselves and annoyed him, all without a purpose. 
As for her — pooh! pooh! — she is heart-whole, the little witch! 
Two children — that is all; and I might as well blame a pair 
of kittens for frolicking together. But I do believe Mrs. 
Gresham was thoroughly alarmed. Ha! ha! ha!” 

And the honest clergyman chuckled to himself as he drove 
through the secluded country roads at the facility with which 
womankind in general allowed themselves to get alarmed 
about nothing. 

“ As for Ida,” he pondered, “ I don’t quite know what we 
are to do with her, if those big Oriental eyes and drooping lids 
of hers are going to raise the mischief generally. She is only 
a child, but she’s going to prove a troublesome child I’m 
afraid. Mrs. Gresham and I must take the matter seriously 
into consideration. I wish we could afford to send her away 
somewhere, fora year or two, until she learns common sense!” 

Ida and Eleanor were both in the door-way when the buggy 
drove up. 

Ida ran out to meet Mr. Gresham. 

“ Where have you been?” was her first question. 

“ I have been over to Doctor Dayton’s.” 

“ What for?” she pursued, quite artlessly. 

“ To take Reginald Delamere there,” was the answer. 


78 


IDA CHALONER'S heart. 


‘‘ Eeginald! To Doctor Dayton^s! And why was that?^^ 

“ Jda/^ said the clergyman, quite gravely, “ if you do not 
know already, it is better for me not to explain things to 
you.^’ 

And he went into the house, leaving Eeginald^s man, Var- 
ney, who was staying at the rectory overnight, in charge of 
Ali Baba, previous to his removal to the Collegiate Institute, 
to take care of the horse and buggy. 

Ida turned to Eleanor with a sorely puzzled face. 

Dear Eleanor, she said, wistfully, what does it all 
mean? Tell me, please 

And Eleanor, who had heard from her mother’s perturbed 
lips the whole story, looked pityingly into the sweet, appealing 
eyes. 

“ Ida, don’t you know? Is it possible that you are so blind 
as not to see that Eeginald Delamere is in danger of liking 
you too well?” 

‘‘ Me! Liking me too well! Eleanor,” added Ida, after a 
moment or two of perfect silence, “ do you mean — of loving 
me P’ 

“ Yes, you strange little elf,” said Eleanor, amused, in 
spite of herself; “that is just exactly what I do mean.” 

Another dead silence ensued. Ida patted her soft hand 
mechanically on Jowler’s shaggy head. 

“ Would that be so very dreadful?” she asked. 

“ Yes, of course. You are both too young, and Eeginald is 
far too rich.” 

“ How too rich?’^ 

“You know, dear,” said Eleanor, gently, “ you are quite 
without means, and — an& there is no means of ascertaining 
your family or parentage. ” 

“ Is that a fault?” flashed out the girl. 

“ Not in my eyes, Ida; but in the world — 

“The world! the world!” interrupted Ida, passionately. 
“ I shall have spirit and resolution enough to defy the world!” 

“ Ah, Ida, we none of us can do that. But tell me, dear — 
you don’t really care for this Eeginald Delamere?” 

“ Yes — no! I didn’t two minutes ago; I don’t know 
whether I do or not now. If I do!” she cried, with shining 
eyes, and a strange startled turn of the head, “it is your 
fault! I never thought of it until you put it into my head!” 

And she vanished away into the twilight like a spirit of the 
dew and shadow. 

As Eleanor stood, straining her eyes into the uncertain light. 


IDA CHALONEB^S HEART. 7^^ 

after the flying figure, a soft voice fell on her ear from the 
opeu window: 

Eleanor r’ 

‘‘ Mamnia/^ cried the girl, are you there?^^ 

'' “ Yes; and 1 have heard what you told Ida. My dear, it 
was scarcely wise.'’^ 

“ It was the truth, mamma.'” 

“ I know it, but it was impolitic, nevertheless. There are 
some things that feed on opposition; and this boy-and-girl 
folly belongs to them. Ida’s nature is just sufficiently fan- 
tastic to mislead her in such an instance as this. I hope she 
won’t brood over the idea; but I do believe it would have been 
the wiser part to have laughed it ofl.” 

But half an hour later, when Mrs. Gresham and Eleanor 
saw Ida sitting in the kitchen nursing on her lap a family — 
consisting of Marguerite, the big doll, the kitten, and a lame 
puppy, which had commended itself specially to her soft little 
heart, and gravely haranguing them, a la Mother Goose, in- 
finitely to the amusement of Angie, who listened, with her own 
doll in imminent danger of a determination of blood to the 
head, in consequence of the intense interest of its owner— they 
agreed that Ida could not be in very great peril of a broken 
heart, after all. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE SECRET MARRIAGE. 

Nearly three weeks had passed since the night in which 
the Reverend Milo Gresham had driven home from the Col- 
legiate Institute, and Ida had questioned Eleanor as to the 
meaning of this, to her, unaccountable mystery of going and 
coming. Mr. Gresham was daily expecting an answer to the 
hurried missive he had sent off to Parker Raynsford at the 
Brahmin Hotel, Nottington Street, London; and Ida, appar- 
ently reconciled to the new order of things, was happy as any 
little queen in the monotonous round of her daily duties — to 
all appearance, that is to say — but there were times when a 
deeper shade of thoughtfulness came into her eyes, and a pen- 
siveness quite foreign to her usual manner would settle upon 
her momentarily, and then be gone. 

She was sitting at her embroidery in the window, on a sul- 
try July afternoon, with Angie talking to her, and the lame 
puppy stretched out on the window-ledge in the sunshine, 
when Mrs. Gresham came hurriedly into the room. 

‘‘ I wish I had some more of that Marseilles trimming,” 


80 


IDA CHALONEB^S HEART. 


she said, in a hurried sort of way. ‘‘ The dress-maker is to 
be here to-morrow, and the trimming just falls short half a 
breadth. That is the way it always happens, I do believe. 
Eleanor might have gone to the village to match it, but she 
has one of her nervous headaches; and if I send one of the 
boys they will be sure to bring me silk galloon, or alpaca 
braid, or something else that 1 donT want and canT use. IVe 
tried that before. 

Let me go for it, Mrs. Gresham,’^ cried Ida, springing 
up. ‘‘ I have nothing particular to do, and I want a walk. 

“ But it is so warm, Ida. 

‘‘ I donT care for that. Whereas the sample? Oh, dear! 
I am so tired of sitting still!^^ 

And she yawned, with her arms stretched over her head. 

Well, 1 am sure ^Kshall be very glad to have the trim- 
ming — there is only halr-a^ard of it wanted; stay, perhaps 
you had better get three quarxei^of a yard, to make sure — at 
eighteen cents. I could send by papa, to-morrow, I suppose, 
but Miss Marshall is to be here early in the morning, and I 
donT want to lose any time.^’ 

‘‘ Mamma, canT I go too?’^ pleaded Angie. 

“ After all your complaints of a pain in the side, this morn- 
ing? No, certainly not, my child. 

Angie looked disappointed. 

‘‘ ril not be gone long, Angie,’’ said Ida. “ It isn’t such 
a very long walk.” 

“ It is two miles and a half, Ida,” said Mrs. Gresham, re- 
proachfully, and I don’t wish you to walk fast and get your 
blood heated, on any account. Angie will do very well with- 
out you, and if you are home by the tea hour, it will be in 
ample time.” 

So Ida set forth with the sample of Marseilles trimming, 
and the eighteen cents in Mrs. Gresham’s faded little leather 
porte-monnaie, safe in the depths of her dress pocket. 

I’ve a great mind to take Marguerite with me,” she said, 
as she opened her not very new sun-umbrella on the threshold, 
‘‘ but then, I suppose, the village girls would laugh. Oh, dear, 
I wish I wasn’t growing so tall. Take good care of Marguerite, 
Angie, while I am gone.” 

“ Yes,” said Angie, sincerely, ‘‘ I will.” 

‘‘ Ida will have to give up her dolls in another year,” said 
Mrs. Gresham, laughing, yet annoyed. “ She is growing too 
old for that nonsense.” 

It was a long walk; but then Ida liked exercise, and enjoyed 
every step of the way. She bought the trimming; invested 


IDA CHALOl^ER^S HEART. 


81 


four pennies of her own in gayly striped sugar Jackson 
balls/’ to divide with Angie, and two more in a quarter of a 
yard of cherry-colored ribbon to loop a white muslin dress, on 
which she and Angie were engaged, for the behoof of the lat- 
ter’s doll. 

As she turned away from the counter, her eye fell on a daily 
New York paper, crumpled and much worn, and the remem- 
brance of a plan she had often pondered on during the last few 
days entered her mind. But, alas! she had no money left, 
and it was not likely that the clerk would refund the cash ex- 
pended for the ‘‘Jackson balls ” and the cherry-colored rib- 
bon. Neither w^as it likely that she would soon again have the 
opportunity to buy a paper without the Notice and comment 
of the Gresham family. She was turning away with a sigh, 
when the clerk, who was tying up a parcel for a fat old woman 
just beyond, reached over to tear off a bit of the coveted sheet, 
for wrapping-paper. 

“ Oh, stop!” cried Ida, breathlessly. “ Have you finished 
reading that paper?” 

“ Yes,” the clerk said, “ we have; it is day before yester- 
day’s paper.” 

“ I should like so much to read it,” faltered Ida. “ Can I 
have it?” 

“ Certainly,” returned the clerk, remembering that Mr. 
Gresham’s family took no daily paper. “I’ve plenty of wrap- 
ping here, only this was so handy. You’re' welcome to it. 
Miss Chaloner.” 

“ Thank you very much,” said Ida, sincerely, and she went 
out of the store, holding the precious parcel in her hand, with 
her cheeks as bright as the ribbon she had just been buying. 

“ Now,” thought Ida Chaloner to herself, “ I can read all 
the advertisements, and may be find some way of earning my 
own living. For although they’re so kind to me, it can’t 
continue always. We must contrive some way of obtaining 
our own livelihood, we girls that haven’t any fathers or moth- 
ers or money. Eleanor is to be an assistant teacher in some 
school; but then Eleanor is so gentle and lady-like, and has 
studied so hard, and remembers everything that she studies. 
I can’t be a teacher or a governess, but I might be something 
else, I suppose.” 

She was deeply absorbed in these meditations, as she crossed 
a tranquil bit of wood, just beyond the knot of houses called 
Deepdale Village,, when a voice roused her from her thoughts, 
and a shadow fell across the green grass at her feet. 

“ Ida!” 


82 


TBA CHA loner’s HEART. 


Eeginald!” she cried, breathlessly, her face lighting 
up in an instant, ‘‘is it possible that this is you? Oh, 1 am 
so glad to see you!” 

He held out his arms silently; she ran into them like a de- 
lighted child, and kissed him again and again. 

“ You are glad to see me, carissima mia V’ 

“ Oh, so glad, Eeginald! It seems a year since we met!” 

“ Then you do love me a little?” 

“ Love you? Yes, with my whole heart, Eeginald.” 

He looked down at her as if to speak, but checking the sen- 
tence that rose to his lips, substituted another in its stead. 

“ Where are you going, Ida?” 

She told him the story of the Marseilles trimming, adding, 
gleefully : 

“ Wasn’t it fortunate that I thought of coming home this 
way instead of by the Deepdale turnpike?” 

“Very.” 

“ And where did you come from, Eeginald?” 

“ I drove down to the post-olfice, Ida, after letters. The 
horse and carriage are just beyond — would you like a ride?” 

“Oh, of all things!” cried Ida, dancing up and down on 
the tips of her slender feet with a child’s exuberant delight. 
“ But — oh, Eeginald, perhaps Mr. Gresham wouldn’t like you 
to drive me home after — after- — ” 

“ Then we won’t go home: we’ll take a turn in an entirely 
different direction,” said Eeginald, quietly drawing her hand 
through his arm. 

Ida had her own private doubts on the subject of the perfect 
“ propriety,” according to Mrs. Gresham’s theories, of this 
drive, but the air was so delicious, and the low carriage looked 
so inviting, and the horse tossed his head so spiritedly, to say 
nothing of her delight at having thus unexpectedly encoun- 
tered Eeginald Delamere, that she banished all hesitation and 
took her place beside him as happy as a bird. 

“ Let me drive, Eeginald,” she coaxed. 

“ No, Ida, the horse is too spirited, and your life is far^ far 
too precious to be risked, even in the slightest degree.” 

“ I am sure I could drive him.” 0 

“ I am sure I shall not let you attempt it.” 

Through the quiet country roads they rolled smoothly 
along, Ida enjoying every inch of the way, Eeginald watching 
her with amused, tender eyes, as she leaned out to catch the 
swaying willow boughs that canopied the road, and uttered 
little exclamations of delight at the rural beauties of the land- 
scape. 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


83 


‘‘ Are you very happy, darling he asked, in a low tone. 

She turned suddenly toward him, attracted by the tone of 
his voice. 

Eeginald, what makes you look so grave?’^ 

‘‘ I have been thinking, ida.^^ 

“ Of what?^^ 

Of maiw things — and firstly and foremostly, of yourself. 

‘‘ Myself ^ she echoed. 

“ I will Tell you all about it, Ida. h have been wondering 
whether you love me.^^ 

‘‘ To be sure I love you, Eeginald. 

Do you love me well enough to become my wife?^^ he 
asked, gravely and suddenly. 

Your wife?"^ she repeated, slowly. “Yes, I think I 
might, after awhile. 

“ No, but now, Ida/’ 

“ Now, Eeginald?” she repeated, in a voice that was flut- 
tered and faint. 

“Yes, now,^^ 

“ No, Eeginald, I don’t feel quite sure of myself; I am not 
sure. It means so much, Eeginald — your loife! No! I am 
certain, no.” 

“ Ida darling, can not you trust me?” 

“ I do trust you, Eeginald. I do love you,” she cried, 
vehemently. 

“ Then why are you unwilling to become my wife?” 

“ I don’t know, Eeginald. I think it is because it is so 
sudden,” she faltered. 

“ Listen to me, Ida,” he said, letting the reins fall to his 
knee, and taking both her hands in his; “ I received, this 
afternoon by the mail, a note from my guardian, Mr. Eayns- 
ford, inclosing a letter to Mr. Gresham, which I am to deliver 
myself. The note written to me is brief and civil — he hopes 
to see soon, and all that sort of thing, which means, trans- 
lated but of the Eaynsford vernacular, that he is coming here 
to pack me off to Europe as soon as possible.” 

“ Oh, Eeginald! and will you go?” 

“ What else can I do?” 

“ And shall you deliver the letter inclosed?” 

“ Certainly. Mr. Eaynsford knew that he could trust in 
my honor as a gentleman. Now, Ida, we have but a brief 
time before us in which to act freely and unfettered. When 
Mr. Eaynsford comes, as undoubtedly he will do very soon, 
we shall be parted — probably forever, but, at all events, for 
years. Ida, it is in vour power to prevent this.” 


84 


IDA CHALONEK’S HEAET. 


‘‘ What can I do, Eeginald?^^ she asked, with her large, 
dilated eyes fixed upon his face. 

You can become my wife, Ida. 

“When?’’ 

“ Now — this very day. We can easily drive down to Len- 
noxville, and be married by the clergyman there, returning 
before you are ever missed. ” 

“ Married!” repeated Ida, in a tremulous voice. And even 
then she did not realize the deep meaning, the solemn import 
of the word she uttered, it seemed to her like a chapter out 
of one of her childhood s fictions — like being an actor in one 
of the tableaus they sometimes had in Deepdale Village. 
Strange and startling though it was, there was a novelty in 
the idea that Ida, thorough child as she was, rather liked. 
What would Angie say? And Mrs. Gresham, who lectured 
her as if she were nine years old, and dealt out her slender 
stock of pocket-money to her in pennies, lest she should be 
tempted to spend it foolishly. 

“Married,” repeated Eeginald Delamere, firmly. “Once 
my own wife, Ida, no earthly power can part us, save for a lit- 
tle while. We have a right to choose for ourselves and decide 
our own destiny; and if you really love me — ” 

“ I do love you, Eeginald — at least I think I do. But it 
all seems like a dream. ” 

“ It will seem natural enough soon, darling.” 

Ida leaned over the side of the carriage, trying to realize this 
strange, new aspect of affairs; but the more she tried to think 
connectedly, the less able was she to fix her mind resolutely 
on the question which was so seriously to affect her future life. 
She noted the buttercup blossoms in the hedge — she turned 
her head to watch the arrowy flight of a brown-winged bird 
from the dense boughs of a cedar-tree, and caught herself 
wondering, even at that eventful moment, whether his nest 
was in that tree, and how many eggs there were in it. Her 
mind seemed swarming with irrelevant thoughts and reflec- 
tions, and the more she tried to govern her idle fancy, the 
more rebellious it grew — and she gave up the attempt in de- 
spair. 

Eeginald had been silently waiting for her to speak, and 
when she sat back in the carriage once more, he himself broke 
the silence. 

“ You will marry me, Ida?” 

“ Yes, Eeginald; I will marry you,” she answered, taking 
heart. For, after all, what difference did it make? 8he must 
marry somebody at some time, she supposed — all women did 


IDA CHALOKER'S HEART. 


85 


— and Eegiuald was rich and handsome, and she liked him; 
besides, with that strange, absorbed look on his face, she dared 
not say ‘‘ No to him. He might do some desperate deed — 
he might shoot himself, or go olf to California — in fact, Ida 
thought him capable of doing any rash action. And why 
should she disappoint him, after all? Yes, she would marry 
him ! 

The rest of the drive was like an idyl from the enchanted 
pages of romance to the infatuated lover and the young girl 
who sat beside him. They knew that the sun shone like a 
vapor of radiant, tremulous gold — that the shadows of tree 
and bush lay across their pathway — that the air was full of 
soft scents and the piercing songs of summer birds; but of 
aught else they could have remembered or described nothing. 
And every now and then Eeginald drew her tenderly to his 
breast, and whispered: 

Ida darling, are you sure that you love me?^*^ and Ida 
answered: 

“ Yes, Eeginald, quite sure. '^ 

The little village church of Lennoxville was open when they 
drove up under the shade of the overhanging elms. It was 
Friday afternoon, and the evening service was just over. The 
near-sighted rector was standing on the chancel steps talking 
to a bent old farmer and his wife, but there was no other per- 
son in the church as Eeginald led Ida up the aisle. She 
looked wonderingly at the painted glow of the chancel window, 
where blue and amber and deep crimson glittered with kaleido- 
scopic brightness, and thought what a sweet, picturesque little 
temple of worship it was, but no vague forebodiiigs of the 
future or grave realization of the importance of the step she 
was about to take was borne in upon her mind. 

Eeginald Delamere spoke a few words to the near-sighted 
clergyman in a whisper. 

“ Oh, certainly, certainly, he answered, in a puzzled sort 
of way. ‘‘ I had forgotten the appointment, but — but I find 
myself getting a little forgetful of late, and I dare say it is all 
right. Mr. Ferguson — to the farmer — perhaps you and 
your wife would remain as witnesses. We will not detain you 
more than ten minutes. 

‘‘ Yes, sir, certain, said the farmer, seating himself in the 
front pew and beckoning to his sunburned wife to follow his 
example. “ A weddin^ is always agreeable to my ideas, eh, 
Jerushy?^^ , 

‘‘Do be still, Hiram, reproved his wife; and then in a 


86 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


whisper, I never did see such a pretty poppet of a bride in 
all my life, but she looks like a child. 

And then, falling on the silence of the sanctuary, came the 
solemn words of the Episcopal marriage service, and Farmer 
Ferguson, obedient to a nod from the rector, was promptly on 
hand to give the bride away. When the time arrived for the 
ring to be produced there was a momentary pause. Reginald 
had failed to provide himself with the necessary auxiliary, but 
he was at no loss. Drawing from his little finger a heavy 
band of gold that had once been his dead mother's wedding- 
ring, he placed it on Ida's finger, and the service went on, 
binding the two young people indissolubly together. It 
seemed like a dream to Ida — the solemn tones of the white- 
robed clergyman, the many-colored gleams of the chancel win- 
dow, raining blue and gold and crimson on Reginald’s bowed 
head, the quiet and coolness of the stone church; nor did she 
feel herself wakening from it until they were once more in the 
sunshine of the church grounds, with Reginald lifting her into 
the carriage, and the swift landscape once more flitting past 
them. 

“ My wife,'’ he murmured, my love, my little treasure!" 

And then Ida Chaloner began to feel conscious that she was 
Ida Chaloner no longer — but Reginald Delamere's wife. 


CHAPTER XII. 

AHGIE BETRAYS THE SECRET. 

The hour for the evening meal at Deepdale Rectory had 
come and gone, and Mrs. Gresham was beginning to feel a lit- 
tle uneasy at Ida’s protracted absence, when her elastic foot- 
step sounded on the path without, and she came lightly- in. 

“ Here is your trimming, Mrs. Gresham," she said, tossing 
the little parcel into Mrs. Gresham's lap. 

“ Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Gresham. “ I'm sure 
I'm very much obliged to you; but what kept you so long?" 

‘‘ You told me yourself not to walk fast." 

‘‘ That is true, Ida; but — " 

“ I am so hungry," interrupted the young girl. Are you 
through tea?" 

Half an hour ago. Don't you see it's past six? But there 
is a bowl of raspb^erries and milk for you, and a slice of 
Eleanor's cake on the third pantry shelf, in the left-hand 
corner. " 

Ida came back presently and perching herseli on the door- 
step, eat her supper, sharing it liberally with the lame puppy. 


IDA CHA loner’s HEART. 


87 

Angie/'' she said, as the child came in from the garden, 

here are two ‘ Jackson halls ^ for you.’'’ 

As she drew them from her pocket, she felt the crumpled 
folds of the daily paper. Ah, she should not need it now. 

‘‘ Ida/’ said Angie, won’t you come out and help me to 
water those verbenas yve transplanted last night!^” 

I don’t feel^lij^e it to-night, Angie,” said Ida, resting her 
cheek on her hand, and gazing out thoughtfully where the 
purple twilight was beginning to deepen over the distant woods. 

“ But, Ida-” 

‘‘ Don’t tease her, my dear,” said Mrs. Gresham; ‘‘ 1 dare 
say she is tired after her long walk.” 

"‘No,” said Ida, “ I am not tired, but I don’t know what 
1 am. ” 

“ Ida, you are not crying?” faltered Angie, perfectly aghast. 

“ Crying! of course I am not crying. What a ridiculous 
idea!” 

But although Ida laughed merrily there was a moisture on 
her eyelashes that belied the silver tones. 

“ Let me alone, Angie; that’s all I want,” she said, almost 
petulantly, and Angie obeyed, ready to cry herself at Ida’s 
unusual caprices of temper. 

“ I’m afraid you have overtired yourself, Ida,” said Mrs. 
Gresham, gently. 

“ No, ma’am, I haven’t,” said Ida; “ I’m only cross.” 

Angie Gresham had stolen upstairs to her own room, and, 
by the light of the bedroom taper, was sitting alone on the 
floor, with her doll’s wardrobe scattered around in miscel- 
laneous confusion, engaged in sorting out the various articles 
which might be improved by a “ weekly wash ” — a cere- 
monial which Angie regularly went through, greatly to the 
detriment of her fresh calico apron, when the door opened and 
Ida came in. 

“ Is that you, Ida?” cried Angie. “ Don’t you want to lay 
out Marguerite’s things? Jane Ann is so careless of her 
clothes this warm weather, you can’t think.” 

But Ida, without answering, went to the little hair trunk, 
where, among her own most treasured possession, “ Mar- 
guerite ” and her wardrobe lay. She took out the precious 
doll, together with several smaller satellites in wood and china, 
and deliberately made a bundle of their clothes and belongings. 

“ There, Angie,” she said, tossing them into the child’s 
lap, “ you may have them now._ I give them all to you.” 

“Ida!’i 


88 


IDA CHALONER’s heart. 


“ I shall not want them any more/^ said Ida, with a quiver- 
ing lip; “1 am married. 

‘‘You, Ida! married!’^ 

“ Hush!’' said Ida, sitting down on the floor and hugging 
Angie close to her breast, while the big tears, like drops of 
crystal, coursed down her cheeks. “ I confide it to you, 
Angie, as a great secret; you must not tell a living soul.” 

“No,” said Angie, in an awe-stricken voice, “I won’t; 
but, Ida, are you really married?” 

“ Yes,” said Ida, holding out the finger on which the heavy 
band of gold glistened in the lamp-light; “ and this is my 
wedding-ring. I was married to Keginald Delamere this after- 
noon.” 

“ Oh, Ida! But I thought people only married people they 
loved very dearly.” 

“ Well, don’t I love Eeginald very dearly?” asked Ida, a 
little shortly. 

But you’v^e only been acquainted with him three or four 
weeks. Nobody can love a man enough to marry him in three 
or four weeks. ’ ’ 

“Angie,” said Ida, with grave dignity, ‘‘you are only a 
little girl, and little girls don’t know anything about such 
things.” 

“ But tell me about it, Ida.” 

“ Well,” said Ida, twirling the new ring round and round 
her finger, “ I met Eeginald in the woods just beyond Deep- 
dale, and he told me how much he loved me, and — and we 
went to the dear little stone church in a place called Lennox- 
ville— ” 

“ 1 know where Lennoxville is,” interrupted Angie. “ Papa 
took me there once, oK, ever so long ago! when I was a little 
girl, and there was a big white house on the green, and a flag- 
pole, and — ” 

“Yes, that is the place,” nodded Ida. “ WYll, we went 
there, and we were married, and that’s all there is to it.” 

Angie sat looking at Ida, with a countenance of mute, 
childish awe. 

“ Ida,” she said at length, in a tone that was so low that it 
was almost a whisper, “ how does it seem to be married?” 

Ida broke out into a peal of laughter. 

“ Why, you little silly — how should it seem?” 

“ I mean, how do you feel?” 

“ Just as I always did, of course. I am the same Ida, am 
I not?” 

“ Yes, but~mamma is married, and so is Doctor Gibson’s 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 89 

wife, who takes snuff, and is always talkiug about ^ my man.^ 
You don^t seem like either of them, Ida.^^ 

‘‘ I dare say not. But I am married for all that!^^ 

“ And are you glad?^^ 

Yes, 1 suppose 1 am. 

Are you going away from here, Ida?^^ persisted Angie, 
whose mind was all on the qui vive with curiosity. 

Not just at present, until Reginald — 

Why don^t you say ‘ my husband,'’ Ida?^^ 

‘‘ My husband, then,^^ said Ida, laughing and coloring — 
until my husband has seen his guardian. And it must be a 
great secret, Angie, until then. 1 don^t know why I hap- 
pened to tell you of it, except that we have been so happy to- 
gether, you and I, and Marguerite and Jane Ann!'’^ 

And Ida bent, half smiling, half sighing, over the sense- 
less dolls that lay staring on the floor. 

“ What are you going to do?’^ she asked, as Angie began 
slowly to pile the dolls^ clothes into the pine box that served 
as trunk, wardrobe, and bureau-drawer. 

“lam going to put away the things, Ida,^^ said the child, in 
a low voice. “I can^t fix my mind on anything but what 
you have told me.-’^ 

“ Nonsense — here, 1^11 help you sort out the things 
“ Oh, Ida, how can you? I am sure I could not tell a white 
frock from a flannel sacque, and you, who have just been mar- 
ried — 

For, in this sense of the thing, it was plain that little Angie 
realized the solemnity of the step Ida had just taken more 
than the bride herself. 

“ Oh, what difference does that make?^'’ retorted Ida, some- 
tvhat petulantly. Aren^t you going to take Marguerite?’’’ 

“ Oh, yes; but I shall keep her by herself. Perhaps some 
day you may come back and want to play with her!” 

“ Married women don’t play with dolls,” said Ida, with 
dignity. “ Come, Angie, it is striking ten; it is high time 
you were in bed! Your mother will be upstairs presently.” 

Angie obeyed, and buttoning up her little dimity-fringed 
night-gown, crept into bed; but long after Ida had gone 
down-stairs she lay tossing on the pillow, restless, distressed, 
and unable to sleep. 

“ Why, Angie,” said her mother, when she came up to 
take away the bedroom light, “ your eyes are as round as full 
moons! Why are you not asleep, child?” 

“ Mamma, I don’t feel like it,” 


90 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEART. 


Are you sick, Angie?^^ questioned Mrs. Gresham, anxious- 
ly. ‘‘ Do you feel ill?^^ 

‘‘ Oh, no, mamma — only wakeful!'’^ 

Mrs. Gresham busied herself about the room for a moment 
or two, folding up and puttiiig away scattered articles of rai- 
ment, and was just turning to leave the apartment, when 
Angie, who had once more fallen into absorbed meditation, 
broke silence, saying, thoughtfully: 

“ Mamma, isn’t it a very serious thing to be married?” 

“ Certainly it is, Angie — one of the most serious things in 
life; but what has put such ideas into your little head?” 

“Nothing, mamma,” the child answered, guiltily; “I 
was only thinking.” 

“ Then I would choose my thoughts more according to my 
age and understanding,” said Mrs. Gresham, laughing. 

“ People can’t be unmarried again, 1 suppose, mamma?” 

“ No, Angie. ” 

“ Then what if they found out afterward that they didn’t 
suit each other?” 

“ They must take the consequences of their own folly, 
Angie. Now, good-night.” 

“ But, mamma,” persisted Angie, who was as morbidly at- 
tracted % the forbidden subject as ever w^s moth by the flame 
of the fatal torch, “ if Ida and her husband — ” 

“ Child,” ejaculated Mrs. Gresham, setting down the can- 
dle again, “ what on earth do you mean? Ida has no hus- 
band!” 

Angie, who had not dreamed that her unruly tongue^could 
lead her into any such imprudent disclosures, sat up In bed, 
sorely bewildered. Here she was between two fires. >fler 
parents had always instilled into her mind how wicked it was 
to be guilty of a lie; yet how could she keep her faithful prom- 
ise to Ida without telling her mother a deliberate falsehood? 
And so, as the best way that appeared to her out of this 
dilemma, Angie fell down again among the pillows, and began 
to cry. 

“ I promised Ida not to tell! I promised Ida never to 
tell!” was her piteous plaint. 

“ Promised not to tell what? Angeline, I insist upon an 
explanation of this mystery,” enunciated Mrs. Gresham, with 
as much sternness as her gentle voice was capable of. 

At the same moment Ida entered the room, singing some 
gay snatch out of a Spanish ballad. She stopped short as she 
saw Angie’s tears and Mrs. Gresham’s agitation. 

“ Ida,” sobbed the child, “ mamma has found it out; but, 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


91 


indeed, indeed, 1 did not mean to tell her; it slipped from my 
tongue somehow. 

‘‘ What is it, Angie?^^ firmly questioned her mother, and 
Angie lifted her eyes to her mother^s face, reiterating: 

“ Please don’t ask me, mamma! I promised Ida not to 
tell.’" 

“ Yes, tell her, Angie,” said Ida, in a sort of amused des- 
peration. “ 1 don’t suppose you meant to betray the secret, 
but you see it is all out now.” 

And Angie, hiding her face on her mother’s bosom, sobbed 
out: 

‘‘ Ida was married this afternoon to Reginald Delamere!” 

‘‘ Ida,” said Mrs. Gresham, turning to her young charge, 
with a face pale as the white walls beyond’ “ is this so?” 

Yes.” ■ 

You, a child, are married to that boy?” 

Yes.” 

When? and where?” 

‘‘ This afternoon, at Lennoxville.” 

‘‘ And she has given me Marguerite, and all the little 
dolls,” cried Angie, breaking exultingly in. ‘‘ She says she 
sha’n’t want ’em any more.” 

Ida,” said Mrs. Gresham, taking the young girl’s hand in 
hers, ‘‘come down-stairs with me to my husband’s study. 
You yourself must break to him the dreadful tidings.” 

‘‘ I don’t see anything so very dreadful about it,” said Ida, 
impatiently. “ I liked Reginald, and 1 have married him.” 

“ Oh, child, child,” cried poor Mrs. Gresham, bursting into . 
tears^ “ how little you realize the step you have taken.” 

Mr. Gresham’s dismay at hearing of Ida’s stolen marriage 
was even greater than that of his wife. His precautions had 
been in vain. Reginald’s impulsiveness had outgeneraled his 
wisdom, and although he did not reproach Ida as did his wife, 
he looked at her with mild eyes of despair, and commiseration. 

“ My poor child,” he said — “ my poor, poor child!” 

Ida was yet defending the conduct, which, seen from the 
standpoint of common sense, was beginning to appear a little 
precipitate in her own eyes, when Jamie brought in a letter. 

“ Rex Delamere ’s man, Varney, brought it. Oh, papa, 
w^hat is the matter?” 

For Jamie’s eyes were not slow to detect the distressed looks 
upon the faces of his father and mother. 

“ Nothing, my son — nothing that you can hear or under- 
stand. Go to your studies.” 

Jamie obeyed, mentally concluding “that Ida had been 


92 


IDA CHALONEH^S HEART. 


getting into some newlark;^^ and Mr. Gresham opened Parker 
Kaynsford^s letter. 

“ Do not go, Ida/^ he said, gravely, as she turned to follow 
Jamie; the letter may contain matter to concern you 
vitally. 

Ida sat down, tapping her foot restlessly on the threadbarp 
study carpet, while Mr. Gresham broke the seal and cast his 
eyes over the few formal lines which it contained. 

Mr. Eaynsford presented his compliments to the Eeverend 
Mr. Gresham, and thanked him for the sense and discretion 
he had shown in at once putting a stop to the boyish folly 
which might, if not checked in time, amount to something 
more serious still. He would, according to Mr. Gresham's 
valuable suggestions, come at once to the United States, and 
himself resume the charge of his impetuous, though not ill-dis- 
posed ward. And then with a few courteous words, of course, 
Mr. Eaynsford subscribed himself Mr. Gresham^s ‘‘obedient 
servant,"^ etc., etc., etc. 

And now,'"" said the Eeverend Milo Gresham, looking de- 
spairingly at his wife, “ what are we to do?^’ 

“ I am sure I do not know,^^ was the equally hopeless re- 
sponse. 

“ Do!^^ cried Ida, arching her jet-black eyebrows. “ I 
donH see that you are called upon to do anything in particu- 
lar. Eeginald and I have chosen for ourselves, and Mr. 
Eaynsford can^t eat us up, nor grind us into powder, like the 
bad-tempered giant in Angie^s story-book.’^ 

“ Ida,” groaned Mrs. Gresham, “ will you never cease to be 
a child?” 

The warm-hearted girl threw her arms tenderly round Mrs. 
Gresham’s neck, crying and laughing in the same breath. 

“ Oh, don’t scold me. Mamma Gresham,” she cried, in 
broken sentences. “ I know I am a naughty, self-willed little, 
bundle of obstinacy; but, indeed, I love you, and I shall never 
forget all your kindness to me.” 

“ Then why were you so anxious to go off and leave us?” 
asked Mrs. Gresham, reproachfully. 

“ I — I don’t think I was anxious to leave Deepdale Eec- 
tory,” said Ida, as if arguing with herself. “ I— I — in fact, 
Mrs, Gresham, I don’t know what did possess me to act so, 
unless it was that 1 thought it a grand frolic, and I liked 
Eeginald — ” 

” Loved him, my dear, I hope,” interposed Mrs. Gresham, 
with an anxious countenance. 

“ Isn’t it the same thing?” 


93 


IDA CI^LONER’S heart. 

“No, my dear, not by any means?’^ 

“ Well, liked — loved — whiat you please. And now I’m 
married, and it can’t be helped, so please, flease don’t scold 
me any more.” 

And Ida’s cherry-red lips, put coaxiiigly up to Mrs. Gresh- 
am’s quivering mouth, and her arms wound m a most 
strangling fashion round the good clergyman’s old-style white 
cravat, most effectually barred all further remonstrance. 

“ One can’t scold the child,” said Mrs. Gresham, when she 
had gone back to coax and comfort Angie, who was sobbing 
in her solitary bed, feeling that she had glaringly abused Ida’s 
confidence and made no end of mischief. “ There is some- 
thing about her that disarms one entirely, no matter how much 
she may deserve severity. Well, I do hope she may be happy, 
although she has been rash — very rash.” 

And Mr. Gresham’s heart echoed his wife’s mournfully 
spoken words. 

“ It is as she herself observed, Selina,” he said, wiping his 
spectacle glasses; “ she is married now and it can’t be helped. 
So let us endeavor to make the best of it, Selina, my dear. ” 

CHAPTER XIII. 

LA BELLE PARIS. 

Life is a series of changes and transformations, and 
romance, founded and modeled after life, is not unlike it in 
this respect. The scene of our story, which has long lingered 
among the peaceful shades that surround Deepdale Rectory, 
shifts now to the most brilliant of modern cities — the Mecca 
of fashion — the enchanted realm of gayety and refinement — 
Paris. 

The ornamented marble fagades of the Hotel Lefevre, in the 
Place Venmont, were catching the last gilded rays of the De- 
cember sunshine, which shone cheerily into a magnificently 
furnished apartment on the second fioor, its plate-glass win- 
dows crowded with rare exotics in full blossom, and a low fire 
formed of sticks of perfumed wood, blazing in the arms of 
twin knights in armor, whose miniature forms did duty in the 
place of old-fashioned fire-dogs. 

The fioor was of marble, with a square of velvet, fringed 
with gold, laid down in the center, where a low lounging-chair ^ 
was drawn up beside a table of malachite and gold, and on the 
tinted walls frescoed groups of fiowers seemed almost to stir 
and move in the life-like perfections of their outlines. A 
gilded basket filled with grapes and roses stood on the table. 


94 


IDA CHALOKER^S gEART. 

and a tiny Ute-a-Ute coffee service of transparently thin china, 
painted in grotesque faces, peeping through clusters of ivy 
foliage, had just been pushed aside. 

A gentleman — Eeginald Delamere — was pacing slowly up 
and down the rooms, idly watching the level sunshine as it 
crept up the walls — and in the low chair, her tiny feet resting 
on an embroidered cushion of satin and gold, sat a fair young 
girl, in whose face and form we have no difficulty in recogniz- 
ing the Ida Chaloner of six months ago. 

The same, yet not the same. Her dress of rose-colored silk 
edged with a foam-like fringe of snowy swaii^s-down, was such 
as a crowjied queen might have worn, and amethysts, outlined 
with diamonds, swung from her ears, and clasped the folds of 
silk at her throat. Jewels sparkled on her fingers in rainbow 
coruscation at every turn of the small, sculptured hands, 
and the magnificence of her surroundings seemed nothing 
more than appropriate to her splendid tropical beauty as she 
reclined there, like a princess of some fabled realms of wealth 
and loveliness, Ida Chaloner still, but Ida Chaloner exalted 
and refined by outward concomitants until she seemed an- 
other being. 

Eex,” she said, letting the book on which her eyes had 
been dreamily fixed fall to her lap, ‘‘ I wish you would draw 
that curtain — the sunshine dazzles my eyes.^^ 

“ Put up your book, Ida; you have been reading long 
enough,^' he said, obeying her request. 

“ WeH, perhaps I have,^^ she said, yawning. Oh, Eex, 
how stupid it is here.''^ 

For the spoiled child of fortune was already beginning to 
tire of the rose- wreathed cup of happiness placed to her lips — 
its ffavor was beginning to pall on her palate— its sparkle was 
growing to be a monotony. 

“ Stupid!'^ repeated her husband, in a tone of some slight 
pique. 

Yes, stupid. If it were not for being presented at court, 
and taking the wind out of the sails of that pink-skinned 
Duchess of Bernmouth, who thinks she is the only pretty 
woman in Paris, I should almost want to leave to-morrow. 

‘‘ Where should we go?^^ 

“ Where? Oh, anywhere for a change. 

‘‘ Is change, then, so necessary to your happiness?^^ he 
asked. 

“ It has grown to be lately.^'’ 

“Ida,^^ said Eeginald, turning from the window, after a 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


95 


few minutes of silence, ‘‘it is a lovely evening — shall we go 
for a drive before dinner?^ ^ 

Ida rose. 

“ y*es — anything to while away the time till the post comes 
in. Eing the bell for my maid, please, Rex.'’^ 

Five minutes afterward, Mrs. Delamere entered the low, 
open barouche, painted a deep chocolate color, and drawn 
by a pair of milk-white horses, whose caparisons of gold plate 
flashed back the level sunshine at every movement of their 
arched crests. Her dress was of a violet velvet, with a tiny 
chapeau of the same, whose long plume drooped over her 
shoulder, and she wore a set of ermine whose snowy whiteness 
was well relieved against the dark velvet. Violet kid gloves 
covered her hands, and a tiny carriage-parasol of violet silk, 
covered with white point d^Alen9on lace, swung by an ivory 
chain from her wrist. 

Reginald looked admiringly at her. 

“Your taste in dress is perfect, Ida,^^ he said, as he as- 
sisted her to her place. 

She made him a laughing bow. 

“ You never expected the little calico-dressed child at Deep- 
dale to come out so brilliantly, did you, Rex.^’^ 

“ I knew you were all that was beautiful and perfect, 
dearest,^’ he said, enthusiastically. 

“ Don^t be too devoted, Rex,^^ she said, arching her eye- 
brows. “ One can’t live on champagne and sugar cake the 
whole time.” 

“ Is it a fault to be too fond of my lovely little wife?” 

“ Well,” hesitated Ida, playing with the curved handle of 
her parasol, “ no, not exactly. But really, Reginald, I think 
it would be rather a relief if you were to give me a good scold- 
ing now and then. ” 

“ Ida!” 

But the capricious beauty had already forgotten her words. 

“ Tell Jean to drive to the gardens of the Tuileries by the 
Rue de Rivoli,” she cried. “ It would be nice to stroll a lit- 
tle way there. ” 

Avx Jar dins Tuileries, Jean!” called out Mr. Delamere. 

“ Oui, monsieur was Jean’s response, and Ida, leaning 
back among the brown velvet cushions, looked dreamily out 
upon the brilliant phantasmagoria of the Parisian streets, and 
wondered if she were really the little girl who played with 
Angie under the apple-trees of the Deepdale Rectory garden, 
and climbed, the mountain after wild berries, carrying Monty 
Gresham’s fishing-tackle for him. 


96 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


Was she any happier now than she had been in those child- 
ish times? Ida hardly knew. She had picked berries to pay 
for a little agate brooch in those days, treasuring it as if it had 
been the Koh-i-noor; her caskets were full of pearls and dia- 
monds, Italian cameos and blue-hearted sapphires, now. She 
had looked on a blue alpaca dress as the realization of the 
brightest type of costume — there were silks and satins, silver- 
shining brocades and India muslins in her wardrobe to-day. 
Yet she looked back on the blue alpaca and the coarsely set 
agate pin with almost a sigh. 

As the stream of private carriages in the Rue de Rivoli 
passed her, and she became conscious of the envying glances 
of richly robed ladies, and the open admiration in the eyes of 
stately gentlemen, she roused herself from her brief reverie. 

“ Is not this pleasant, Rex? The air is so sweet and brac- 
ing ?^^ 

“ I wish those fellows would not stare so!^^ ejaculated Dela- 
me re, rather shortly. Ida laughed. 

“Oh, let them stare. I suppose every new face in Paris 
creates a sensation. 

Late as it was in the day, the gardens of the Tuileries were 
still crowded with promenaders — ladies who came there to dis- 
play their faultless toilets and excite the envy of their feminine 
rivals, and gentlemen who went to see the gay throng of hu- 
manity, exchange nods with casual acquaintances, and pick up 
floating boamots and morsels of fashionable gossip, while ex- 
quisitely dressed children played under the care of white- 
capped bonnes, enlivening the whole scene with their merry 
laughter and ringing voices. 

Mrs. Delamere walked along the broad promenade, her vio- 
let dress trailing on the pathway behind her, and the ermine 
half falling from her shoulders, while the delicate crimson 
glow on her cheek and the brilliance of her large, black-lashed 
eyes seemed brightened by the chill fresh air and the exercise 
of her quick, elastic movements. Several acquaintances came 
up for a word and glance from la belle Americaine, and to 
solicit permission to introduce more, and in fifteen minutes 
Mrs. Delamere was the belle of the fashion-crowded spot, 
while her young husband stood by, proud of the sensation she 
made, yet withal a little uneasy at the enthusiastic admiration 
so frankly expressed by the demonstrative young Frenchmen. 

“ Shall we go now, Ida? The sun is nearly down,^^ he 
whispered, while Mme. la Oomtesse d’Ancour held up her 
23lump hands, incased in cream-colored kid gloves, in a polite 
despair. 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


97 


Madame Delamere has not promised to vouchsafe her 
charming presence at the little ball of the birthday in the 
Faubourg Saint-Honore. Monsieur would surely not be so 
heartless as to tear her away, s^epouse cliarmante, until she, 
Madame la Oomtesse, could win a pledge. 

Ida promised, laughing at Mme. d’Ancour^s earnestness, 
and they turned once more to the low, chocolate -colored 
barouche, where the white horses were pawing the ground im- 
patiently and tossing their heads at the gate- way. 

As the carriage rolled away, Ida chanced to glance toward 
the crowd of idlers who are generally congregated round the 
gates of this enchanted realm of fashion, and as she did so she 
uttered a little exclamation and grew pale. 

‘‘ Ida, my darling, what is it?^^ asked her husband. 

She leaned ov^er the side of the carriage and looked eagerly 
back. 

I must have been mistaken, she cried, for I don^t see 
it any more— but I — 

“ See what?^^ 

‘‘ Giuseppe 

And pray, who is Giuseppe?^^ 

Don’t you remember all I have told you of Mr. Pierre, 
the man who used to have a sort of care over me before I 
came to the Greshams? Giuseppe was his servant. I hated 
the man always.” 

‘‘ Who, Mr. Pierre, or Giuseppe?” 

“ Well, I never loved Mr. Pierre, certainly; but I hated 
Giuseppe most cordially.” 

“ But for what reason?” 

‘‘ Oh, Kex, how logical you are! I don’t know what reason 
— a child’s instinct, I suppose. At all events, I have never 
forgotten his evil, simpering face, and I am sure I saw it just 
now, looking down on me from the crowd, just as he has 
looked at me forty times, in my baby paroxysms of anger. I 
am sorry he is in Paris.” 

She shuddered slightly as she spoke, and buttoned the pearl 
clasps of her ermine as if a sudden chill had come over her. 

My darling, what a strange superstition!” soothed her 
husband. 

“ I was always afraid of him, Eex.” 

‘‘Afraid? Why?” 

“ I don’t know— I can’t tell. Don’t let us talk about him 
any more. Let Jean drive to Mademoiselle Micharde’s before 
we go home. I want to order a gold-colored glace for the ‘ ball 
of the birthday,’ as Madame la Oomtesse calls it. Shall it be 
4 


98 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


gold-colored glace, Reginald, or a dead- white silk with little 
puffings over it, and pearls?’^ 

I like you best in white, dearest. 

‘‘But there’s more character in the gold color, and 1 can 
wear the yellow buttercup wreath with that, the buttercups 
that have got diamond dew-drops in them. ” 

“ Wear what you please, dear; you are lovely to me in 
whatever you choose to put on.” 

Ida looked gravely up into Mr. Delamere’s face. 

“Rex,” she said, with all a child’s earnestness, “what 
makes you love me so?” 

“ What makes the sun shine and the wind blow, you strange 
little elf?” 

“ No; but Rex, I don’t believe I love you as you love me — 
not in the same ardent way!” she pursued. 

“ Perhaps it is because woman’s nature is less capable of 
intense affection than man’s. 1 am stronger and taller than 
you, therefore my love is developed in proportion.” 

“ No, Rex; that sounds very wise and philosophical, but it 
is hollow,” laughed Ida. “ A woman’s love is stronger than 
a man’s— that is what my instinct tells me! It’s a puzzling 
question, this love!” 

Reginald Delamere looked down upon her with a strange 
feeling of sadness. Well, it was foolish to expect too much at 
first. “She did not love him as he loved her. ” She was 
only a child — a bud half opened; a young bird who had not 
yet learned to feel its wings. It would all come to her in 
time. 

There was a pile of letters lying on the little malachite table 
when Ida came in, and Mile. Mathilde, the French maid, who 
had so many more airs and graces than her mistress, made 
haste to assure her that “ the post had brought itself in. ” 

Ida uttered a little scream of rapture, ajid throwing her 
parasol and ermine on the floor, twitched off her bonnet, leav- 
ing her jetty curls all tumbled and disheveled, and caught up 
the letters. 

“ From Mrs. Gresham and Eleanor — oh, Rex, only see! and 
a postscript that Angie wrote herself, with five blots on it! 
Darling little Angie, how I wish 1 could see her again!” 

The tears sparkled on Ida’s eyelashes as she stood there, 
eagerly perusing the treasured lines from the simple, yet lov- 
ing hearts at Deepdale Rectory. Mile. Mathilde looked up in 
astonishment, as she gathered up the scattered habiliments 
from the floor. 

“ And the little yellow chicken that Angie and I brought 


IDA CHALOilER’S HEART. 


99 


up ourselves, because the hen wouldn^t own it, is dead, and 
Monty has a trout weighing two pounds, and the Robinson 
Crusoe Cave has all fallen in, because of the autumn freshets, 
and Geoffrey Moreland is at home again, and Mamma Gresh- 
am thinks it will be all right between him and Eleanor yet. 
Oh, I am so glad!^^ 

Reginald listened to her incoherent words with a smile of 
loving amusement. What a child she was — full of impulses, 
and so quick to tears when the tide of her inner affections 
were stirred! 

At this moment a grave servant in black threw open the 
door beyond. 

“ Dinner is served, madame.^^ 

The table,»seen through the folding-doors of the inner apart- 
ment, was fragrant with freshly cut roses, and sparkling with 
glass, and silver, and china. M. Achille understood the art 
of surrounding the appetite with poetical illusions. 

‘‘ Come, darling,’’ said Reginald, gently; ‘‘ leave Deepdale 
Rectory awhile, and come back to Paris. What are you think- 
ing about so gravely?” 

“ 1 was wondering,” Ida replied, as she took her seat at the 
elegantly appointed table, while Achille placed before her a 
plate of transparent-looking liquid, with small fishes of some 
savory compound, with cloves for eyes, swimming about 
among submarine growths of green parsley (for, in Achille’s 
eyes, ordinary soup was transfigured into clear mountain lakes, 
walled in with rocks of Sevres) — “I was wondering what 1 
should send dear Eleanor for a wedding-present? Do you sup- 
pose Geoffrey will bring her to Paris, Rex?” 

“ Hardly, I think, my love. Geoffrey is a poor young man, 
according to what you have told me, and Rome, and Switzer- 
land, and the Alps, winding up with Paris, cost money.” 

“ I forgot,” said Ida, thoughtfully; and then looking about 
her, she added: “ Oh, Reginald, it’s nice to be rich, isn’t it?” 

‘‘ So people say, car a 

‘‘ At all events, I will write to Eleanor this evening,” she 
resumed. 

'‘You forget JSTeverini at the Grand Opera, Ida?” 

" We won’t go to-night, Rex.” 

" But I have secured the best box in the house, and we can 
not get it again this week.” 

" Oh, then, wedl go,” said Ida; '' and I can write to-mor- 
row night.” 

So Mrs. Delamere attended the Grand Opera that night in 
a white brocade that made her look like a charming little 


100 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


marchioness of the olden time, and pearls hanging like drops 
of moonlight in her rose-leaf ears. 

Verily her lines bad been cast in pleasant places. 


- CHAPTER XIV. 

THE DUCHESS OF BERI^’MOUTH^S DEFEAT. 

The residence of Mme. la Comtesse d^Ancour, in the Fau- 
bourg Saint-Honore, was ablaze with lights on the night of 
the birthday fete, while the broad balustrades were wreathed 
with tropic vines, and the windows seemed framed in banks of 
camellias, jasmine, and tea-roses so deliciously sweet that the 
very air one breathed was a luxury. The musicians, secluded 
from view in an inner alcove, were discoursing the sweetest of 
strains, and the salons were already quite full when Mr. and 
Mrs. Delamere entered. 

Ida had carried out the picturesque caprice of appearing in 
the gold-colored glace, wdth diamond-hearted buttercups in 
her silken curls, and her ivory shoulders, half veiled beneath 
a Chantilly lace scarf, whose price would have paid all the 
family expenses at Deepdale Rectory for a year, while a lace 
fan, mounted on sticks of carved gold, hung from the amber 
bracelet at her wrist, and a bouquet of yellow acacias corre- 
sponded with her toilet. 

There was a universal murmur of admiration, as her young 
husband led this dark-browed beauty in, like some fairy queen, 
robed in dew and sunshine. La telle Americaine had become 
the topic of conversation in the circles of Paris society, and 
people crowded eagerly around the flower-festooned door-way 
to see her enter. 

Ah, ma telle, how good of you, how sweet cried Mme. 
la Comtesse, hurrying to meet her, in a pale-blue velvet dress, 
made very low in the corsage, and blue turquois ornaments 
that gave her sallow skin a cadaverous effect. “ But you are 
an angel of complaisance. Ma foi ! I have here of English 
and of Americans many, so you will not be alone, save in 
your 'beauty.-’^ 

And Ida was at once surrounded, and, as it were, taken 
possession of, bj jeweled ladies and courtly, high-bred gentle- 
men, with stars and orders gljstening on their breasts, while 
the hours of the evening seemed to slip by as if they were 
minutes. 

Ida enjoyed society thoroughly, and this was a variety of 
society quite new to her. She was the acknowledged belle of 
those glittering rooms in the Faubourg Saint-Honor6 — titled 


IDA CHALONEE’s HEAKT. 


101 


gentlemen bowed over her tiny gloved hands, and sued for 
the honor of this or that unappropriated dance — ladies whose 
ancestors went back to the ages of feudal story, pronounced 
her charming. One gray-haired gentleman, plainly dressed, 
who paid Ida the prettiest compliment she had that evening 
received, was a prince,^^ one of the bulwarks of the French 
court, and Ida was half pleased, half startled, to learn after- 
ward that a lady, whose name she had not caught in the hasty 
spoken introduction, but who had patted her head and called 
her a ‘‘ veritable little humming-bird,^^ was descended from a 
well-known line, with the blood of royalty coursing beneath 
her well-powdered skin! 

But the person she liked best of all her new acquaintances 
was a lady of perhaps thirty-live, whose fringed draperies, in 
the crowd of the supper-room, caught in Ida’s gold bouquet- 
holder. She turned to apologize in words whose accents were 
like music, so low, so soft, and so exquisitely modulated. 

Oh, never mind!” cried Ida, and then remembering her- 
self, she laughed, colored, and went on in French, assuring 
the other that no harm was done. 

‘‘You need not speak in French,” said the lady, smiling. 
“I am English-born, if not English-bred, and the sound of 
the Saxon language is very sweet to me.” 

“I am so glad,” said Ida, impulsively. “ 1 speak French 
very well, they tell me, yet English is the language most natu- 
ral to me. ” 

The lady, turning to the gentleman who was with Ida, spoke 
a word or two in a low voice, and he immediately begged the 
pleasure of introducing to Mrs. Delamere Mme. Avioli. She 
was a personage of ab^out five-and-thirty, as we have before 
said, but looking at least ten years younger, with a complexion 
of dazzling fairness, hair of bright, luxuriant auburn, and 
deep-blue eyes. 

Her dress was of lilac satin, full of amethystine luster and 
changing lights, and her jewels were diamonds of great size 
and brilliancy. 

“ I fell in love with her the moment I saw her,” was Ida’s 
after account of the introduction to her husband. “ I think 
she is the loveliest person I ever saw in.my life. I wished for 
the first time in my existence, after I saw her, that nature had 
created me a blonde instead of a brunette.” 

But Ida did not dream how deep the destinies of Mme. 
Avioli were to be interwoven with her own future, as she stood 
there, looking with all a child’s innocent admiration into the 
violet, soft eyes, and listening, as if in a sort of spell, to the 


102 IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 

words that flowed like liquid silver from the lovely lips of her 
new friend. 

The Duchess of Bernmouth came in rather later than Mrs. 
Delarnere — a wax-skinned, voluptuous blonde, after the style 
depicted by Peter Paul Rubens^ glowing pencil, with blue, 
sleepy orbs, and a profusion of light flaxen ringlets; a lady 
whose white satin draperies flowed around her in surging bil- 
lows, and whose necklace, of pink Neapolitan coral, was said 
to be the finest article of the kind in all Paris. 

Lady Bernmouth, although she was over thirty, had been 
the reigning queen of fashion for some time, and when people 
spoke of the dangerous charms of the American stranger, the 
duchess smiled scornfully and shrugged the beautiful white 
shoulders, where dimples came and went every time she moved. 

‘‘ An American, said Lady Bernmouth; “ I should as soon 
think of furling my colors before a Chinese belle, or a young 
lady from the Court of Japan. 

As this was the first field on which the rival beauties had 
met, there were a great many pairs of eyes upon them, and 
many significant whispers and secretly exchanged glances, 
when Mme. d^Ancour, taking it for granted, in her warm 
superabundance of hospitality, that the English and American 
ladies would be charmed to know each other, checked the 
Duchess of Bernmouth in her triumphal progress through the 
room directly in front of the group of which Mrs. Delarnere 
formed the center. 

Madame la Duchesse,^^ she cried, eagerly, “ pray let me 
do myself the pleasure to introduce you to Mrs. Delarnere, the 
charming American lady who has this evening delighted us 
with hef society. 

Lady Bernmouth put up her eyeglass; and then, with the 
slightest possible inclination of her golden- tressed head, 
dropped it again. 

“ Oh, an American she said, with a soft, easy insolence 
of tone and manner; adding, quite audibly enough to be 
heard: Nobody knows who these rich parvenus of Americans 

are. 

Ida lifted her brilliant, languid eyes, while a deep crimson 
came to her cheek, and answered, in a voice as soft and low as 
the duchesses own: 

“ But we all know who Madame la Duchesse of Bernmouth 
is, and we have known these ten years. 

She turned to the Italian nobleman with whom she was con- 
versing, and the duchess, whose sore point was her thirty-four 
years and her somewhat passee style, colored so red that her 


IDA CHALOKER^s’ HEART. 


103 


pink Neapolitan necklace seemed to be overflowed and sub- 
merged in the scarlet tide of blushes. Nobody laughed, but 
there was a murmur, almost inaudible, going round the room, 
and a general attempt to conceal a smile, that made the duch- 
ess painfully aware that the story would be all over Paris by 
the next morning. There had been a passage of arms be- 
tween Mrs. Delarnere and the Duchess of Bernmouth, and Mrs. 
Delamere had conquered. The fat duchess, with the golden 
hair and the shoulders like drifts of snow, had met with her 
Waterloo. 

Ida sat up in her white cashmere wrapper that night to 
write to Angie, and a brief extract from her letter may per- 
haps give a better representation of her ideas of Parisian life 
than any other more labored description: 

“ I have only just returned from a ball in the Faubourg 
Saint-Honore,’" she wrote, after various allusions to Deepdale 
matters, and many questions on similar topics. “ I wish 3 ^ou 
could have seen me in my yellow dress, and a wreath of my 
buttercups, which Eeginald had had set with diamonds to 
please me. You would fancy there was a great glittering dew- 
drop in every cup; the diamonds came from a pair of bracelets 
that belonged to his mother. 1 lost one of them, and 
cried about it; but Eex'said it was all nonsense to make my 
eyes red about so insignificant a thing as a diamond. I think 
1 looked nice — at least Eex said I did; but I believed he would 
say so if 1 were to dress in bed- ticking, tied round the waist 
with red flannel. Oh, Angie, it was so nice! Fancy little me, 
flirting with counts and marquises, and viscounts, and there 
was one prince there, the Prince de Molignac, cousin, or 
grandfather, or something else, to Louis Philippe, and he 
talked to me ever so long, and I never once remembered that 
he was a prince, for he talked just like any other man, and 
wore a plain black dress, with a red ribbon across his breast, 
and a silver star — the cross of the Legion of Honor, Eex told 
me afterward. Oh, he was such a nice old gentleman; and 
the Princess Adele Montcoiitour was there — and the loveliest 
creature I ever saw, the Countess Avioli, the widow of an 
Italian nobleman, who is staying in Paris just now. She has 
promised to come and see me, and I have fallen in love with 
her at first sight. She is an English lady, I believe, or at least 
she has been educated in England, and they say she is a great 
friend of the empress. That reminds me, I am to be pre- 
sented at court next week. And such a white satin dress I 
am having made, with a long train of white velvet — the dress 


104 


IDA CHALONEK^'S HEAKT. 


to be embroidered in set figures of small diamonds, so that 
whenever I turn there will be such a sparkling that I expect 
to dazzle myself. But revenons d nos nwutons, I must tell 
you about a famous English duchess whom I routed with great 
slaughter. You must know, she and I are rivals— that is to 
say, she has been all the rage here, and I, Ida Delamere, re- 
solved to dethrone her. Saucy of me, wasiiH it? but, you 
see, I am only sixteen, and she is twice as old, so I nave the 
advantage of youth, and that, Angie, is nine points of the 
question. So, when we were introduced to-night, she stared 
at me with her hard, glittering eyes, and said something so 
rude that it set my blood boiling in my veins. So I put on 
the most impertinent look you can imagine, and said some- 
thing just twice as insolent. You should have seen her color 
up, and Madame d^Ancour told me afterward she was glad of 
it. She never looked at me again — the fat duchess, I mean — 
the whole evening. Wasn’t it splendid? 

But you forgot to tell me about the lame puppy in your 
letter. Does he limp as much as he did? I shall bring him 
a beautiful collar when I come home. I sent a box, by ex- 
press, yesterday, to Deepdale, with a set of decorated china 
for your mother, and a package of books which Kex picked 
out expressly for Papa Gresham. And there is a big doll for 
you, with a little trunk and trousseau, all complete, and a 
blue silk dress for Eleanor, just the color of her eyes, and a 
revolver for Monty, and a box of carved chessmen for James. 
Oh, and a casket of bonbons! I don’t think they are really 
so nice as the striped Jackson balls we used to buy at the store, 
but they are tied with white satin ribbon, and look very ele- 
gant. When the box was all packed, and Eex was closing it 
up — I know you won’t laugh at me — but I sat down on the 
floor, and cried, with my cheek lying on the direction: 

‘‘ ‘ Kevekend Milo Gkesham, 

‘‘ ‘ Deepdale Rectory, Deepdale, Conn,’ 

for I felt such a thrill of homesickness, and as if I must creep 
into the box myself and be carried with the doll and the bon- 
bons back to dear old Deepdale. Sometimes I fancy that 
Paris, and the new chocolate-colored carriage and Rex are 
only one of my day-dreams that Papa Gresham used to shake 
his head at so solemnly, and that I shall rouse up presently to 
fliid myself sitting on the window-sill, with my sewing in my 
lap, and Marguerite propped up in the corner beside me. I 
am very, very happy here; there is nothing but pleasure and 
amusement from one day to another. And Rex loves me so 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


105 


dearly that everything I do or say is right in his eyes; and it 
seems as if I had Aladdin^s lamp to sujiply every wish and an- 
ticipate every thought; but sometimes — (1 wonder if it is 
wrong, Angie?) — I feel as if I should like to be like Cinderella, 
to throw the glass slipper away, and come back to the chim- 
ney-corner again. 1 get almost tired of Eex and his devotion 
once in awhile. I wish he wouldn^t follow me so, and keep 
asking me whether I am too warm or too cold. I am down- 
right cross with him sometimes, and then I get by myself, and 
cry, to think how wicked I am growing. I wonder if all wives 
feel so? 

Angie, don’t let any one see this letter. I could not have 
written so to your mother or Eleanor, or any one in the world 
but yourself; but you know we were always allies, and even 
though I know you can not understand all this, it is a relief 
to me to sit down and write it to you. 

Give ten thousand kisses to them all at Deepdale, not for- 
getting Marguerite, and Jane Ann (the French doll’s name is 
Celestine), and the lame puppy, and Jowler, and everybody; 
and be sure that there is nobody in the world who loves you 
half so well, dear, darling little Angie, as 

“ Your own, own 
“Ida.” 

This was the letter written to her little friend by the child- 
wife, sitting in her luxurious fauteuil, in the superb rooms of 
her Parisian abiding-place; and there were the traces of tears 
upon the last sheet. Poor Ida! 


CHAPTEK XV. 

GIUSEPPE. 

Wearied out by the excitement of the ball in the Faubourg 
Saint-Honore, and the vigil of letter-writing which succeeded 
it, Ida slept late the next morning, and it was nearly nooii 
when at length she opened her eyes. 

The curtains were closely drawn, and Mathilde was sitting 
before the fire, waiting until it should be her mistress’s pleas- 
ure to rise. 

“ Is it late, Mathilde?” 

“ It is a quarter of twelve, madame.” 

“ Has my husband breakfasted?” 

“ Long ago, madame; he was obliged to go to the American 
minister’s on business, and he desired me not to disturb ma- 
dame.” 


106 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


That was like Rex, so thoughtful and considerate always/^ 
thought Ida, as she lay vvatching the blaze and crackle of the 
fire. 

‘‘ I would not have awakened madame to tell her of it/’ 
went on Mathilde, “but there is a person here to see her. 
He waits now, in the fortihre down-stairs. 

‘‘ A man, Mathilde? Who is it?^^ 

“ He would not give his name, madame; he said his busi- 
ness was pressing, and concerned you alone. 

“ I wonder what it can be?’^ pondered Ida. “ However, 
you may bring my things, Mathilde. I may as well dress at 
once.^'’ 

The toilet of the capricious little lady was not a matter of 
very great rapidity, and her breakfast of chocolate and dainty 
French rolls followed it, so that it was nearly one o’clock be- 
fore she entered her boudoir, and sent Mathilde to usher her 
anonymous visitor into her presence. 

Perhaps it is the diamond-setter,” thought Ida, or the 
man who wants to take the order about my flowers, or — ” 

But while her mind was yet busy in weaving vague conject- 
ures, the door was thrown open, and Mathilde retired, after 
showing in a tall, softly stepping man, in a suit of seedy black 
and a neatly tied white cravat. 

“ Giuseppe Antonardi!” 

The words broke almost involuntarily from Ida’s lips as she 
sat gazing on this unexpected apparition — an unwelcome link 
between her life in the past and present. 

He bowed low and obsequiously. 

“ I am glad the signora remembers me,” he said. 

“ But I don’t remember you pleasantly at all,” said Ida, 
with more truth than conventionality. “ What have 3’ou 
come to see me for? You might have been quite sure that I 
did not want to see you.” 

“ I did not know that I have been so unfortunate as to 
offend the signora,” returned Giuseppe, with drooping head 
and an ostentatious humility of tone. 

“ You were always offending me — you and Mr. Pierre,” 
said Ida, brusquely. “ I suppose you have come to beg, but 
I shall not make myself your almoner. Take yourself off, 
Giuseppe — you shall not make anything out of me.” 

“ Madame, you are mistaken; I do not come to beg — ” 

“ Then what do you come for?” demanded Ida, coolly. 

Madame, I am very poor,” said Giuseppe, slowly. “ The 
world has not treated me well. I am in debt; 1 must have 
money.” 


IDA CHALONER's heart. 


107 


Giuseppe/^ said Ida, 1 would give a five-franc piece to 
any poor beggar in tlie street, but 1 would not bestow a sou 
upon you. Charity is one thing, extortion another. If you 
have nothing more to say, I will ring the bell for Achille to 
show you to the door.^^ 

Giuseppe’s face darkened to a dull mahogany color. 

“ But I have something more to say, madame; I have a 
great deal to say. ” 

“ Say it, then, and quickly.” 

‘‘ I do not speak unrewarded. My speech is like marketable 
wares— it will bring its worth in solid gold pieces.” 

‘‘It will bring you to the street outside in charge of a gen- 
darme, if you are not careful,” cried Ida, growing fairly ex- 
asperated. “ What do you take me for, Giuseppe, to listen 
to such insolence?” 

Her eyes sparkled; round spots of crimson glowed like roses 
on either cheek. Giuseppe watched her with ill-disguised ad- 
miration. She looked lovely thus, and Giuseppe, albeit he 
had no heart to speak of, had yet sufficient artistic appre- 
ciation to admire her beauty. 

“ What do I take you for, madame?” he repeated, slowly. 
“ I will tell you by and by; but first, I have some trifling de- 
tails of family history to communicate to you.” 

“ Of your family history?” 

“No, madame; of your own.” 

Ida looked at him in astonishment. 

“ Of my family history, Giuseppe? You must be dream- 
ing.” 

“ I am not dreaming, madame. You intimated, 1 believe, 
that you were not fond of my master — Monsieur Pierre 
L’Echelle.” 

“ I detested him,” answered Ida, with emphasis. 

“ That was unfortunate,” said Giuseppe, with a shrug of 
his shoulders, “ for he was your uncle.” 

“ My uncle! Monsieur Pierre my uncle?” 

“ Your uncle, madame.” 

“ It is false!” cried Ida, coloring, and then growing pale. 

“ I have letters and papers which would prove it in any 
court of law in Europe, madame. ” 

“ Well, and what then?” said Ida, after a moment or two 
of silence, during which she was revolving in her mind the 
strange -tidings she had just heard. “ Monsieur Pierre is 
dead; he can no longer rise up to claim a relationship whi h 
during his life-time he ignored.” 


108 


IDA CHALOKEK’S heart. 


Yes, madame; he is dead, and that brings me back to the 
question you asked me, as to whom you were.^^ 

I asked you uo such question, Giuseppe. 

‘^No matter, madame; it amounted to the same thing. 
You, Madame Ida Delamere, are — the daughter of a mur- 
deress!'"’ 

“ Giuseppe gasped the girl, rising to her feet, as pale as 
ashes, “ what do you mean?’^ 

“I mean that your mother^s was the hand that stabbed 
Monsieur Pierre L^Echelle to the heart the night that he 'died 
the death of a dog. The jeweled dagger that lay bloody on 
the floor was hers. 1 saw her throw it from her when the 
deed was done. I saw her steal from the room, noiselessly 
and stealthily, at the dead of night 

Giuseppe, you are speaking falsely!’^ 

‘"Madame, I swear it before high heaven! If ever fate 
confronts me with that guilty woman, she will confess the 
deed; she dare not deny it!^’ 

“Then, Giuseppe,^^ slowly articulated Ida, “you lied 
foully in the evidence you gave at the coroner’s inquest. ” 

He shrugged his shoulders again, that little foreign move- 
ment that Ida so abhorred. 

“ What could I do? I was a poor man, and friendless; the 
L’Echeiles were rich and powerful; moreover, they belong to 
a family that never forgive, ‘ Vengeance to the death ’ is their 
motto. The deed was done; all my evidence could not bring 
the poor victim back to life again. Moreover, madame, there 
was you — could I have the heart to ruin you, an innocent, 
harmless child, with the name of a murderer’s offspring? 
Per Bacco ! I may be a villain, but I am not so bad as that!” 

“ Giuseppe,” said Ida, coldly, “ this mock sentiment is 
wasted on me. You had your reasons for keeping this awful 
crime a secret, but it was not through any mercy toward 
me!” 

“Let it be as madame pleases,” said Giuseppe, quietly; 
“but here is what I have to tell you: You are the daughter 
of one who is liable, at any moment, when I choose to break 
the silence of years, to a death upon the gallows. You are 
rich, courted, and gay; you have a husband, I am told, who 
adores you; your carriage rolls by on the boulevards, while I 
trudge on foot, humble and despised; but to-day I am the 
wealthier of the two, for I own a secret which has power to 
turn your husband’s love into horror, and brand you with the 
awful shadow of a crime which no one can ever hear named 
without a shudder.” 


IDA CHA LONER S HEART. 


109 


Ida grew pule as he spoke, but rallied herself with an effort, 
r If it is the truth, Giuseppe,^^ she said, and, mind you, 
I ain myself convinced that it is a monstrous fabrication — 

“ You will discover, madame, that it is too true.^^ 

“ Supposing it, then, for argument’s sake, to be true, why 
have you kept silence all* these years? Why have you not 
spoken out your precious piece of information long ago?’^ 

“ What good would it have done me, madame? For I free- 
ly confess that if I could have found your guilty mother — and 
it is not from any lack of search that I have not long ago 
hunted her down,” he added, with an evil glitter in his eyes, 
“ I would have taxed her long ago with the crime. 1 would 
have compelled her to pay with a gold piece for every mo- 
ment of my forbearing silence! But, up to this time, she has 
continued to elude me with a cunning that was always her in- 
heritance — for the L’Echelles are secret as the grave, and 
slyer than the serpents; but never fear but 1 shall find her 
yet. Giuseppe Antonardi was once in the secret police force of 
Austria, and that is a training that a man never forgets. I 
shall find her yet! But, in the meantime — fer Bacco ! — a 
man must live, and I am poor! It is for money that I have 
come to you, and money I must have!” 

And I am to be your victim?” Ida demanded, bitterly. 
You are to be the generous recognizer of my forbearing 
silence, madame,” said Giuseppe, smoothly. 

Giuseppe,” began Ida, “ it seems to me that this is a 
mere fabrication, from beginning to end, trumped up for the 
purpose of an unblushing extortion.” 

“ As madame pleases; but if you refuse to help a poor man 
in his need, 1 shall immediately seek an interview with your 
husband, whose more logical nature will at once recognize the 
correctness and justice of my claims. He may, perchance, 
be surprised to learn that he has married the daughter of a 
murderess — ” 

He- will not believe you.” 

‘‘ Does madame think so? At all events, 1 am ready to 
risk my chances for it.” 

He was turning away, when Ida spoke again. 

“ Giuseppe, who — where is — my mother? You ought at 
least to tell me that!” 

‘‘ As to whom she is, madame, I deem it proper to preserve 
rny secret yet a little while longer. What good would it do 
you to know? And ivhere she ! If 1 knew 

myself, do you suppose I should be here, begging a mere 


110 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


gratuity, just to keep soul and body together? Shadow of 
Croesus! I should be a rich man, madame!^’ 

Ida^s trembling hand sought her purse. Giuseppe observed 
the motion and stopped abruptly. 

Madame has decided to take the part of wisdom, he 
said, insinuatingly. Madame knows that a poor fellow can 
not starve!^’ 

‘‘ I do not believe your story, Giuseppe,'^ she said; yet it 
is perhaps better that 1 should yield for once to your extor- 
tion.'’^ Here Giuseppe elevated his eyebrows remonstratingly. 

But, remember that it is for the last time. See, here is 
money; do not forget that it purchases your silence!’^ 

Giuseppe^s eyes glistened as Ida poured the gold pieces into 
his outstretched palm. 

Madame is generous as becomes one of the race of 
L’Echelle,-^^ he muttered, greedily. ‘^Henceforward my 
tongue and my memory become your faithful slaves. No one 
shall know, from this time, that such a one as Giuseppe An- 
tonardi exists.'’^ 

He crept away with the soft, leopard-like tread that Ida had 
remembered from a child; and the next instant she was alone 
— alone with the awful shadow which his disclosure had cast 
over her life. 

She sat down again, pressing both hands over her eyes, try- 
ing to summon every faculty of her mind to the aid of the be- 
leaguered citadel of sense and reason. 

“ It can not be true,’^ she murmured; it is too horrible!'’^ 

And yet, why should it not be true? It was not in the least 
unlikely that Mr. Pierre had been — as Giuseppe asserted — 
her uncle, else why had he taken the general charge of her, 
paying her bills and superintending, after his vague and un- 
equal fashion, her childish education? But why, then, had he 
entertained such an inveterate dislike to her? Why did he 
separate her from her mother, who, according to Giuseppe^s 
account, was living all the while? Or, was it possible — and 
Ida acknowledged the probability of the idea with a sick feel- 
ing of despair — that her mother had herself discarded and 
thrown off the holy tie of maternal tenderness? There were 
unfortunate children, and Ida, little as she knew of the world’s 
vice and wickedness, was beginning to learn this, whom father 
and mother alike blush to recognize — children who are name- 
less and unacknowledged. Oh, merciful Heaven! could she be 
one of these? And what was the deally feud between brother 
and sister which had culminated in a midnight murder? 

Ida sat thinking of these things, her face buried in her 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Ill 


han(fe, taking no note of the flight of time. This was lier first 
roiigl\ awakening to sorrow — her first actual experience of the 
realities of a world where pleasure's cup is seldom entirely 
unmiiigled with the bitter under-current of grief; and it was 
inexpressibly terrible and prostrating to the spoiled child;, 
whose life had heretofore glided along like the enchanted 
lapses of a summer morning. 

And for the first time she uttered that wild, wicked wish 
which rises, as it were, spontaneously to the lips of so many a 
pilgrim over earth^s dreary road: 

“If I could die, and hide away from it all in the grave! 
Oh, if I could die!^^ 

She was roused from those wretched meditations by the 
sound of her husband’s footsteps in the corridor without. She 
started up, looking wildly round, as if she fain would have 
fled or concealed herself from his eyes. 

ISlot withstanding her assertion tliat she did not believe 
Giuseppe Antonardi’s tale, she would not for the world have 
had Eeginald Delamere listen to its blighting words. No — it 
was a secret which, at all hazards, must be kept secret. 

“ Ida, my darling,'’^ Mr. Delamere exclaimed, in a voice of 
concern, as his eyes rested upon her pale face and swollen eye- 
lids, “ what is the matter? what has happened to disturb 
you?’’ 

“ Nothing — that is — 1 don’t know, Reginald,” sobbed Ida, 
letting her head fall upon his shoulder. “ 1 suppose I am 
tired, that is all.” 

“ Tired? Of course you are, my poor little blossom!” mur- 
mured the husband, soothingly. “ Too much gayety has 
wearied you out; we must be more careful in future. Have 
you been alone all the morning?” 

“Yes.” 

She spoke the falsehood with compressed lips, and eyes 
never once lifted to his face. 

“ Has no one been here? Not the man about the dia- 
monds, nor Dumarte, with the imperial photographs!” 

“ No, Rex; no one.” 

“ Very well. Then get ready for a drive. You need a lit- 
tle fresh air, and a good long rest afterward. Shall I call 
Mathilde?” 

“ If you please, Rex.” 

Mathilde was not in madame’s bedroom, and Delamere 
opened the door of the dressing-room beyond, where the trim- 
looking French woman was at work. 

“ Go to your mistress, Mathilde,” he said. 


112 


IDA CHALONER'S heart. 


The girl rose, shaking her work from her lap. 

‘‘ Has the visitor, then, gone who was with madame?’^ 

What visitor, Mathilder^^ 

“ The man. 

Your mistress has had no visitor this morning, Mathilde/^ 
The woman looked puzzled. She herself had shown the 
tall, softly stepping foreigner into Mrs. Delamere’s boudoir; 
but she was too Parisian to insist on what her mistress evi- 
dently had chosen to conceal. 

I beg monsieur’s pardon,” she said; “ I have been mis- 
taken. Of course madame has had no visitor.” 

And she tripped away to obey her mistress’s summons; 
while Keginald, after a momentary marvel at the girl’s mis- 
apprehension, took up Galignani’s “ Messenger,” just brought 
in by Achille, and began to read. 


CHAPTER XVr. 

PRESENTED AT COURT. 

Mme. Ayioli was sitting in Mrs. Delamere’s reception- 
room when the young wife returned from her drive. Al- 
though her dress lacked the brilliant accessories of the night 
before, she w^as as lovely as ever, in a black velvet carriage- 
dress, with deep-blue plumes in her velvet hat, and her India 
cashmere shawl, clasped with a cameo of dark, translucent 
stone, edged all round with tiny sea-pearls. Ida thought she 
looked like a picture, as she sat leaning back in the deep hol- 
low of the sofa with a book in her hand. She rose, as Ida ran 
up to her, both hands stretched out, in the bright gladness of 
her welcome. 

‘‘ Ah, mia carissima/^ she said, smiling, ‘‘ I have waited 
long for you. What! you will give me a kiss?” 

“Ah, yes,” pleaded Ida, holding up her lips like two 
cherries. “ I always want to kiss people that I love. ” 

“ And you love me already, mia, is that it?” 

“ Indeed I do. Sit down again, and talk to me.” 

The countess obeyed, and looked keenly into Ida’s face. 

“ You are pale, little one, your eyes are heavy. Ah, this 
is a world of compensation! and you are paying for the tri- 
umphs of last evening.” 

“ No,” said Ida, throwing aside the bonnet, whose strings 
she had untied; “ it is not that, Madame—” 

“ Call me Lucille, carissima — that is the name I should 
best like to hear from your lips.” 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


113 


\ 

Well, then, if I may be Ida, too.^^ 

the soft syllable rippled like music from Mme. 
Avioli’s mouth. ‘‘ It is a sweet name, and I like it— Ida. 
But what were you about to tell me — of those weary eyes and 
colorless cheeks 

“ Nothing, except that we can not always be happy. 

Ah, 7nia -poverina, you have found that out already 

I suppose so,^^ said Ida, slowly. 

“ You are right, Ida. Life is not all sunshine and roses,^^ 
said Mme. Avioli, stroking the small hand which she held in 
hers. There are troubles, however, which grow less when 
confided to some faithful bosom. 

Mine is not one of that kind,^^ said Ida, recoiling at the 
very idea of revealing to any living soul the awful secret which 
she had that morning learned. ‘‘ Not,^^ she added quickly 
remembering herself, “ that I have any serious trouble — only 
— only, you know, one is naturally capricious and changeable 
at times. 

‘‘ True,^^ assented the countess. But, to leave these shad- 
ows, which are as vague as they are indescribable, you 
promised to tell me all about yourself and your American 
home. I like to hear of lives so different from my own. 
Speak to me, my heart, as if you were speaking to yourself. ” 

And Ida, coming close to the countesses knee, and nestling 
down on a low velvet divan, so that she could hold her vis- 
itor’s hand, told of Deepdale Kectory and the sunny years of 
her childhood, growing interested and eager as she went on. 
Had it been the day before, Ida would have spoken of her 
previous life, of M. Pierre and the strange, roving character 
of her earlier years; but now she could scarcely tell herself 
why she carefully avoided any word or allusion which should 
lead to those times. 

Mme. Avioli listened with interest almost as absorbed as that 
of the fair young speaker. 

‘‘ The good priest!” she cried, when Ida humorously de- 
scribed the peculiarities of the Reverend Milo Gresham. 
“ How I should have liked to know him!” 

Not priest, madame; he was a clergyman.” 

“It is all the same, 7nia ! And the demoiselle with the 
blue eyes and the gentle voice, whose fitmce proved recreant 
and fell in love with you!” 

“ It is all right once more,” said Ida, eagerly. “ They will 
soon be engaged, and he will forget me, as if I had never 
lived.” 

“ Yes,” said Mme. Avioli, a little bitterly, “ that is the way 


114 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


of men. But it will not be so, cara^ with your husband, the 
beautiful boy, with the dark-blue eyes. It is plain to see how 
devoted he is to you.^^ 

Ida drew herself up slightly. 

“ He is not a boy, madame — he is past nineteen.'’^ 

Mme. Avioli laughed musically. 

Don^t be offended, Ida, but what is that but a boy? My 
husband, when he died — the saints be merciful to his soul — 
was seventy, and past. Do not look so shocked, my child. 
It is true that I did not marry him for love — but we manage 
these things differently on the Continent. I was alone and 
poor, with high lineage to support, and people said not with- 
out beauty. What would my life have been alone? The 
Count Avioli was good to me; he proved a noble and gener- 
ous husband, and 1 was a faithful wife all the years of our 
union — as faithful, Ida, as if I had loved him with boy-and- 
girl enthusiasm. And when he died he left me wealth and 
independence, and the name of madame, which secures me the 
freedom I so pined for as a girl. It was not romantic, but qiie 
voulez vous ! it is not everybody who runs away, and is mar- 
ried among the roses at sixteen, like you, ma petite!’^ 

Mme. Avioli^s visit was prolonged far beyond the period 
prescribed by fashion, and when she went away, Ida begged 
her soon to return. 

“ I donT know what makes me love you so much,^^ she 
said, wistfully; “ but I feel as if you were my sister!^'’ 

Mme. Avioli pressed the soft hand of the young wife in her 
own. 

‘‘ Sister,^ ^ she repeated, gently; that is a happy thought 
of yours, Ida. We will be sisters!^^ 


So began Mrs. Delamere^s first friendship in Paris. 

When the day for her much anticipated presentation at 
court arrived, Ida looked like a fairy in the midst of a snow- 
wreath in the dress Mile. Micharde had sent home in a box 
large enough for a tyunk. It was, as she had written to Angie 
Gresham, of white satin, embroidered with floss silk butter- 
flies, each crested with the glitter of tiny diamonds, fastened 
by some mysterious triumph of the jeweler^s art into the 
satin, and a long train of pure white velvet, while a point lace 
scarf was fastened picturesquely over one shoulder and under 
the other, and clasped with a diamond brooch on the top. 
She wore nothing in her curls but a natural white rose, with 
its accompanying spray of green leaves; and the magnificent 
solitaire diamonds, which had been her bridal gift from her 


IDA chalonek’s heart. 115 

husband, shone like spots of quivering fire on her breast and 
in either ear. 

“ How do you like me, Eex?^^ she cried, running gleefully 
into her husband^s dressing-room. “ Oh, how funny you look 
in your court suit! Your carriage is here; mine doesn’t come 
until afterward.” 

‘‘ Aren’t we going together?” demanded Mr. Delamere, in 
some bewilderment. 

Going together, indeed! That’s a man’s idea!” laughed 
Ida. Why, there isn’t a carriage in all Paris large enough 
to hold us both!” 

‘^Does that court costume of yours take up so much 
room?” demanded the young husband, somewhat amused, 

“To be sure it does. Come, make haste — it is getting 
late!” 

The presentation room at the palace was already full when 
Mr. and Mrs. Delamere arrived, and Ida, leaning on her hus- 
band’s arm and courteously conveyed by the American minis- 
ter, passed through the glittering aisle of beauty and fashion, 
her heart throbbing, perhaps, a degree or two more rapidly 
than usual, yet quite self-possessed, and even a little defiant. 
Wasn’t she, in right of her Republicanism, as royal a lady as 
any one of them? And, moreover, a queen in her youth and 
loveliness? 

As she swept along, she caught the bold, suspicious eye of 
her old enemy, the Duchess of Bernmoutli; and, if possible, 
held her pretty head more erect on that account. 

The empress stood at the end of the room a little on one 
side, surrounded by a small but brilliant circle of ladies and 
gentlemen, and dressed in a lilac velvet robe, trimmed with 
Chantilly lace, and a shawl, of the same costly material, sweep- 
ing down from her shoulders, while her fair, high-bred face, 
not, perhaps, so youthful-looking as it was when she was the 
boast of all Europe, but still marvelously delicate in outline 
and fresh complexion, was relieved by the golden hair, which 
brushed back from the brows, fell in a cascade of shining curls 
at the back of her head. 

Ida bowed low over the delicate gloved hand of the first 
lady in France, as the courteous representative of the trans- 
atlantic Republic pronounced her name, and then, after a 
sweet and graciously spoken word or two from the empress, 
which she hardly heard in the excitement of the moment, 
moved on., to make room for a fat lady from Chicago, whose 
face was the color of her crimson satin dress, and whose 


116 IDA CHALONEE^S HEAET. 

gloves, from undue pressure and nervousness, were split half- 
way up the palm. 

When at length the presentations from Yankee land were 
over, and while the English minister stood respectfully await- 
ing her majesty^s permission to introduce the ladies from his 
own aristocratic isle, the empress turned smilingly to Mr. 
-, the American Minister: 

So that is la lelle America Ine, of whom 1 have heard so 
much!^’ she said, with a gracious glance toward Mrs. Dela- 
niere, who was standing at some little distance. “ For once 
the tongue of rumor has not been false. You may tell your 
fair countrywoman, monsieur, that Eugenie thinks her face the 
loveliest that has lighted up St. Cloud this season, del ! but 
it must be sweet to be so young and so beautiful 

And with a sigh, perhaps given to the memory of her own 
departed youth and loveliness, Eugenie turned toward Lord 
Edenbourne, and a second series of presentations followed. 

The Duchess of Bernmouth assumed her sweetest air of 
grace and languor, as she bent before the empress, but 
Eugenie had no special word of compliment for the fat blonde 
with the dazzling shoulders and the parure of Neapolitan 
coral. Since she had been defeated by the styleless little girl 
with the bold black eyes, and the complexion of a Spanish 
creole. Lady Bernmouth could have gnashed her beautiful 
white teeth as she thought of it. And when, a few hours 
later, the report of the compliment Mrs. Delamere had re- 
ceived from the august lips of royalty itself was ringing through 
every drawing-room in the gay world of Paris, Lady Bern- 
mouth actually cried. 

“ I am tired of this horrid Paris, she exclaimed, when 
questioned by the much astonished duke as to the cause of 
her tears. ‘‘ Let’s go on to Pome to-morrow.” 

Not until after the ball at the palace, my dear. ” 

“ Well,” said Lady Bernmouth, wiping away her tears, as 
the judicious after-thought occurred to her that a red nose and 
swelled eyelids were not beneficial to the prettiest of faces, 
we’ll wait for the ball at the palace. Do you suppose that 
horrid upstart little American will be there?” 

I don’t know; I should suppose so, after what her im- 
perial majesty said about her beautv.” 

‘‘ I’ll have one mere trial before I’ll be stared down by those 
bold black eyes,” said Lady Bernmouth, energeticall}^ 

She drove to MJle. Micharde’s that very afternoon, and was 
closeted with the fashionable modiste for over an hour, giving 
her what she called the rough idea ” of an unapproachable 


IDA chaloner's heart. 117 

toilet of rose du Chine silk, which was to dazzle the world at 
the approaching palace ball. 

But as the days passed by no card of invitation arrived. 
Lady Bernmouth marveled at the delay, and at length de- 
cided so far to ignore her pride as to consult a fitting authority 
on the subject, Mme. la Marquise de Beaumont, who was 
cousin to M. Partier, whose sister was the Comtesse d^Ele- 
monde, one of the ladies-in-waiting to the empress. 

I suppose the list of invitations to the ball isn^t made out 
yet?^'’ she said, casually, to Mme. la Marquise. 

“My dear,^^ said the marquise, “it was made out long 
ago.’" 

“ Then what do you suppose was the reason I haven’t re- 
ceived mine?” asked Lady Bernmouth, quite forgetting her 
diplomacy in her eager anxiety. 

“ Oh,” said Mme. de Beaumont, quite enjoying Lady Bern- 
mouth’s face, “ your name is not on the list. There are so 
many English in Paris just now, of course her majesty must 
make a selection.” 

“ Not on the list?” 

“No; I’m sure of it. Marie d’Elemonde told me herself, 
and she saw the names.” 

Lady Bernmouth had grown first livid and then green as she 
sat twisting the emerald and diamond rings on her plump 
fingers. 

“ Is — is that pert little Mrs. Delamere’s name down?” she 
asked, in a choking voice, as if the necklace of Neapolitan 
coral were too tight. 

“ Oh, yes,’" Mme. de Beaumont answered, promptly; “ her 
name is first on the American list!” 

Lady Bernmouth never mentioned the subject again, but 
left Paris the next morning, taking the rose du Chine dress 
with her. Three times had she been defeated in a fair field 
of battle by a chit of sixteen, a plain Mrs,, with nothing on 
earth but a round, dimpled face, and. Lady Bernmouth vin- 
dictively added, “ impudence enough for a dozen.” 

The Duchess of Bernmouth had no mind to risk another 
such signal discomfiture. As for our little Ida, she, in the 
royal sway of youth and beauty, and the intoxicating atmos- 
phere of adulation which surrounded her, would scarcely have 
envied the empress’s self the diadem that crowned her beauti- 
ful brow, if it had not been for one shadow, which, like that 
of Mordecai in the king’s gate, came perpetually between her 
and the sunshine of her happiness — Giuseppe Antonardi. 

For, not content with what she had so generously given, he 


118 


IDA CHALONER’s heart. 


came again and again, claiming yet more as his right, and 
growing insolent in proportion as he succeeded in working 
more and more upon her feelings. His face haunted her as 
she drove along the fashionable avenues — she saw him lurking 
around her door as she alighted from the carriage; he followed 
her everywhere like a shadow. 

‘‘ I shall appeal to the police if this persecution is con- 
tinued,^^ she cried, passionately, to him one day. 

“ Appeal, then, madame,^^ Giuseppe replied, with a mock 
sort of humility. “ I place no restraint upon you.^’ 

And Ida bit her lips until the blood came, to think how ut- 
terly powerless she was in the hands of this villain. 

“ I could almost murder you when you look at me in that 
evil way,^^ she said, as Giuseppe watched her, under his sly, 
cat-like lids. 

It is easy for the L'Echelles to commit murder he said, 
lightly. “ I can believe you, lady. 

And Ida, between the sickening aversion she felt to the man 
himself, and the fear lest, in some of his persistent visits, Kegi- 
nald Delamere should encounter him, was nearly frantic. 

Go now!’^ she said, hurriedly, counting out money, “ that 
is all I have got to-day.'’^ 

Giuseppe^s brow darkened. 

“ This — it is a mere trifle 

It is all I have, I tell you.^^ 

“ I must have more.^^ 

Ida knew the firm, metallic voice too well to parley longer. 

Her husband^s carriage was driving up at the same mo- 
ment. She tore a diamond ring from her finger and tossed it 
into his palm. 

‘‘ Take that!^^ she said, checking his rapture of thanks 
with a gesture of disgust. ‘‘Go to Mathilde, and tell her to 
let you out at the back entrance — quickly!'^ 

If she could have seen the smile on Giuseppe^s face as he 
obeyed her hurried words! 


CHAPTEK XVII. 

THE SHADOW OF CHANGE. 

The ball at the Tuileries, although Ida Delamere was not 
at the time aware of it, was yet another stone, placed by the 
hands of the Master Artificer, Destiny, on the edifice of her 
fate. She had looked so pale and wearied all the day long, 
that Eeginald had hesitated as to the propriety of her going 
when at length the hour came for her to dress. 


IDA CHA loner's HEART. 


119 


But her child-like coaxings^ and earnest entreaties finally 
prevailed; and when he saw her enter the room in a dress of 
white silk, covered with floating skirts of tulle, which made 
her look like a snow-cloud, while her cheeks glowed like carna- 
tions, and her eyes were softly brilliant, he could not but tell 
himself that her lack of health and spirits was nothing more 
than distorted fancy on his part. 

“ That dress is like white fringes of sea-foam, Ida," he said, 
smilingly, as he rose to lead her down to the carriage, “ and 
your pearls somehow add to the illusion. You will assuredly 
be the belle of the room; but remember not to flirt!" 

He spoke in jest, and she made some light answer, as she 
took up the bouquet of white roses and japonicas, which had 
just been sent in, wrapped in silver paper, and tied in a box, 
from the fashionable florist of Paris. 

The superb rooms at the palace were already thronged when 
Mrs. Delamere entered, and she had the satisfaction of being 
the cynosure of all eyes, partly for her own surpassing beauty, 
partly on account of the unusual compliment which had been 
accorded to her by the empress. The requests' for introduc- 
tions followed one after another with bewildering rapidity, 
and Ida found herself almost, as if by magic, the belle of the 
evening. 

She enjoyed it with the fervor and intensity belonging to 
her years; and pa^see beauties, whose lives had been passed in 
the shadow of royalty could not but smile to see the innocent 
happiness of this lovely, bright-eyed child. 

Presently Mme. Avioli brought up a friend of hers from 
Scotland, and begged to be allowed to introduce “ Mr. St. 
Argyle. " He was a tall, handsome man, with regular feat- 
ures and large hazel eyes. But the chief beauty of his face lay 
in his mouth, carved in red flexible lines, and shaded by a 
silky brown mustache. His dregs, the uniform of a colonel in 
some Scottish regiment, was picturesque in the extreme, from 
the plaided scarf at his belt to the claymore hanging at his 
side. Moreover, what was of considerably more consequence, 
his manners were soft and fascinating enough to charm a 
much more fastidious beauty than our little Ida. 

There was more than one meaning glance exchanged among 
the assembled guests at the desperate flirtation at once in- 
augurated between Colonel St. Argyle and the beautiful Mrs. 
Delamere. Eeginald himself, though he smiled at it at flrst, 
could not long blind himself to the fact that his pretty wife 
was playing the coquette. 

“ Ida," he whispered to her, as she passed him. leaning on 


120 


IDA CHALOHER^S HEART. 


Colonel St. Argyle^s arm^ the band is striking up a waltz — 
will you give it to me?^^ 

“ I oanH, Eex/^ she answered, in the same tone; “I’ve 
promised to waltz with Colonel St. Argyle.” 

Mr. Delamere’s brow darkened. 

“You have danced with him often enough, Ida,” he said, 
in a tone of censure. 

“I am the best judge of that myself, Eeginald,” she an- 
swered, haughtily. 

“ I request that you will not dance with him again.” 

“ But, Eeginald, I have promised.” 

“ Once, then — but not oftener!” 

Delamere turned gloomily away, while Ida, smiling an 
affirmative to Colonel St. Argyle’s whispered question as to 
whether she was ready, floated away on his arm to the en- 
chanting music of the imperial band. 

“ Eex needn’t be so cross!” thought Ida, with a little pout; 
“ and now to punish him. I’ll keep my engagement card for 
the rest of the evening.’' 

Ida kept her word. Between Colonel St. Argyle, several 
agreeable young French officers of the imperial household, an 
English baronet, and a bevy of Xew Yorkers, she had not a 
word nor a look for Eeginald, and finished the evening with a 
dizzy rapid redowa, danced with Colonel St. Argyle. 

Eeginald, hurt and wounded by his wife’s thoughtless con- 
duct, uttered not a single word as the carriage rolled home- 
ward in the gray of the morning. 

“ You don’t ask me what sort of an evening I’ve had,” said 
Ida, breaking a long silence at length. 

“ I did not think it necessary,” was the dry reply. 

“ And why not?” 

“ Because you seemed to be enjoying yourself to the top of 
your bent.” 

“ So I was,” said Ida, mischievously. “ Colonel St. Argyle 
is delightful, and as for that dear little Monsieur Estenierre, 
I never waltzed with so perfect a dancer in my life.” 

Eeginald did not answer, but looked intently out of the 
window. 

“ Eex,” cried Ida, “ how silly you are!” 

“ I am obliged to you for your good opinion!” was the 
somewhat bitter reply. 

“As if a husband and wife could dance together all the 
evening. That isn’t the style at all to play Darby and Joan.” 

Not at all,” answered Eeginald, coldly. “ The fashion- 
able code holds that the society of any brainless fop, who wears 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


121 


a sword and sash, or carries an order on his breast, is prefer- 
able to that of one’s husband, and you are acting up to its 
rules and regulations.” 

‘‘ Eex, you are jealous.” 

Not in the least. 1 fully recognize your right to be a 
fashionable wife if you choose.” 

“ What did you bring me to Paris for, then?” 

“ To enjoy yourself.” 

Yes, and set yourself deliberately to work to prevent my 
doing anything of the sort by a regular system of espionage.” 

‘‘If enjoying yourself means deliberate flirtation with other 
gentlemen, Ida, you can hardly blame me!” 

“ Then I suppose you will be very much mortified when I 
tell you that Colonel St. Argyle is coming to-morrow to drive 
me out with his cream-colored ponies?” 

“Ida!” 

“ Well, why shouldn’t I go? Where’s the harm? Madame 
Avioli went with him last week, and Lady Beinmouth but a 
little while ago.” 

Keginald sat silent. 

“ Rex,” persisted Ida, “ don’t you wish me to go?” 

She laid her gloved hand on his arm. The warm, wayward 
little heart was beginnins: to melt beneath its crust of caprice 
and willfulness, llad Reginald said, in his old, loving tone, 
“ Ida, do not go,” she would have given up her appointment 
in an instant But, alas! that we can not read the secrets to 
one another’s hearts. 

Reginald had heard only defiance and contempt of his wishes 
in her tones. 

“You can do precisely as you please,” was his cold answer, 
and Ida sat back in her corner of the carriage, feeling that 
she was rebuffed. 

“ I toill go now, at all events,” was her internal resolution. 

And she kept her word, the next day, being out all the 
morning with Colonel St. Argyle and the cream - colored 
ponies, wliile Reginald, sitting at home by his lonely fireside, 
mused within himself as to whether he had not committed an 
act that was cruelly unjust to Ida, as well as to himself, when 
he led her to the altar of the little stone church at Lennox- 
ville six months ago. 

“ She was too young to know whether she loved me or not,” 
he thought, bitterly, and I — good heavens! what is to be- 
come of me if — ” 

And then his head sunk on his hands — the picture was too 
heart-breaking for his mind’s eye calmly to contemplate. 


122 


IDA CHALONER's heart. 


She does love me — she love me/^ he thought, ‘‘ or 

my life will not be worth a straw^s weight to me. 

It was late in the day when Ida returned, and she was not 
alone. One or two gay young French gentlemen accompanied 
her, and she induced them to remain and dine with her. 

“ Mr. Delamere will be delighted,"’ she said, with a glance 
in the direction of her husband; and Reginald could not but 
join in the invitation his wife had so recklessly given, little as 
his heart coincided with the mechanical words he spoke. 

He was inexpressibly annoyed at this new freak of Ida’s. 
Had she returned alone, they would have been reconciled ere 
this; for his heart was full of tenderness toward her, and re- 
gret for the seeming unkindness of his manner the night be- 
fore. 

But these Frenchmen, with their conversational chat, and 
idle, meaningless laughter, had come in between the electric 
current of his heart and hers. Well, if Ida preferred the so- 
ciety of these popinjays to his— and then Reginald checked 
himself. Yes, Ida was right; he was growing bitter and ex- 
acting. It was no wonder she wearied of him; perhaps it 
would have been better that they had never met. 

Ida,” he said, when they had at length taken leave, 
‘‘ shall we go to the Louvre to-morrow?” 

Thank you,” said Ida, suppressing a yawn; but I don’t 
care to go to the Louvre to-morrow.” 

‘‘ If Colonel St. Argyle had asked you,” bitterly rejoined 
Reginald, “ you would have accepted the invitation at once.” 

“ Perhaps I might,” said Ida, carelessly. 

‘‘ Am I, then, less to you than OolonerSt. Argyle?’’ 

“You are more— a great deal more, Rex,” laughed Ida, 
rather in mischief than malice. “ That is, you scold more, 
and can be infinitely more disagreeable.” 

“ And does it never occur lo you that you yourself are not 
absolutely perfect?” 

“ If it doesn’t, it is not for lack of being told of it.” 

Reginald was silent and annoyed. This flippant mood was 
sonlething as new as it was repeliant in Ida. 

‘‘ By the way, Rex,” she said, after a few moments, during 
which not a word was spoken on either side, “ we are going to 
get up a carriage-party to Madame Latour’s chateau, a little 
way out of Paris. Do you want to join us^” 

“ ‘ We ’? And whom may ‘ we ’ mean?” 

“ Myself, of course,” with a purse up of the mouth, “ and 
Madame Avioli, and Madame d’Ancour, and Mr. Armaud, 
and Colonel St. Argyle — ” 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEAET. 


123 


Eegiijalcl iiiteirupted her at iliis point. 

“ Do you mean that the party is absolutely made up, Ida?’’ 

“ I believe so/’ she answered. 

And who was to be your escort?” he asked. 

“ Colonel St. Argyle, of course/’ said Ida, saucily. 

Leaving me quite out of the question,” rejoined Delamere. 
‘‘ Upon my word, Mrs. Delamere, you are acquiring the habits 
of free-and-easy Parisian ladies with a facility which is really 
admirable!” 

Ida colored indignantly. 

“‘Free-and-easy’? I am at a loss to understand your 
meaning, Eeginald.” 

“ And I yours. Perhaps it is scarcely worth while to dis- 
cuss the matter, as our opinions differ so widely.” 

“ Eex, you are getting intolerable. Do you expect me to 
tell people, on receiving an invitation, that I can not accept it 
until 1 go home and ask my husband’s permission? The 
crudest of domestic tyrants can not wish that the marks of his 
claims should be visible to the whole woikl.” 

Eeginald laughed hoarsely. 

“ You are very complimentary to me, Ida.” 

Ida rose and left the room — perhaps the wisest thing she 
could have done, in her then state of temper, and nothing 
more was said on the obnoxious subject. 

Eeginald Delamere joined, the carriage-party to the old 
chateau, but he evidently did not enjoy the expedition, nor 
did Ida. But she had, at all events, one satisfaction — that of 
having her own way. 

“ Eex is only a little cross and out of sorts,” thought the 
young wife; “ he’ll come around all right; at any rate 1 am 
not going to coax and wheedle him. He may as well learn, 
first as last, that these petty jealousies are too ridiculous for 
me to notice.” 

And so the breach went on, widening and widening until 
the momentary distance, which a single loving word or kiss 
might have spanned at first, became deep and wide as a black- 
waved gulf whose waters are shadowed by eternal night. Eegi- 
nald Delamere’s nature, originally frank and trusting in no 
ordinary degree, was becoming warped under the pressure of 
this unnatural atmosphere of doubt and dread. Words and 
looks, vrhich he would not have noticed at another time, be- 
came freighted with deep meaning and cruel satire. Ida’s 
slightest and most unconsidered actions were judged according 
to this Procrustean rule, and the verdict was one and the same 
at all time: 


124 


IDA CHALOKER’S heart. 


“ She does not love me! She has discovered, at length, 
that she has a heart, and— woe is me! — that heart is not 
mine!^^ 

The natural consequence of this constant wearing and fret- • 
ting of the nervous system was a coldness and irritability, 
which Ida saw with surprise, but her youth and inexperience 
supplied her with no panacea for this strange, mental disease. 

‘‘ It will be all right after awhile, I dare say,^^ she comfort- 
ed herself by thinking; “ but oh! it is horribly disagreeable!'’^ 

In the meantime, while Reginald Delamere fancied himself 
the most miserable man on the face of the earth, Ida had trials 
and annoyances of her own which he had not the slightest con- 
ception of. 

Giuseppe^s requisitions were growing more and more ex- 
orbitant; and Ida, who'se morbid fears of the disclosure of his 
fatal secret increased with every hour in which she allowed 
herself to muse upon the hideous rampart of circumstantial 
evidence he had built up around her, had already parted, with 
Mathilde^s help, with many valuable articles of jewelry and 
bijouterie, to supply his greedy demands, and began to feel an 
absolute dread of returning from a drive or walk, lest she 
should see his stealthy form lurking near her residence, or 
emerging from, a gate- way, sudden and sly as an emissary from 
the E\^il One. Sometimes she resol \red to tell Eeginald all, 
and defy Giuseppe to do his worst — but her courage failed her 
at this idea. 

Reginald, she said one evening as she was ui] clasping 
the necklace of pearls she had worn at a large dinner-party, 
‘‘ do you think it is right to judge children for the fault of 
their parents?^^ 

What do you mean?^^ 

Suppose a young man were engaged to a girl, and were to 
find that her father — Ida had not the courage to put the 
case in anymore parallel form — ‘‘had committed a terrible 
crime. In that case, ought he to marry her, or break the en- 
gagement?^^ 

“ He would be justified in breaking the engagement, of 
course. ^ ’ 

Ida’s heart sunk within her. 

“ But why? Surely it would be no fault of the girl?” she 
persisted. 

“ No, not primarily; but you don’t reflect how often vice 
and depravity are handed down, as a natural blood-inherit- 
ance, from generation to generation.” 


IDA CHALONEK^S ITEAET. 125 

‘^Eeginald, I think that is very unjust/^ protested Ida, 
eagerly. 

“ Unjust, perhaps, but a perfectly natural inference,^-’ he 
answered, indifferently. 

Ida said nothing more, and Eeginald never dreamed how 
cruelly he had hurt and disappointed, her. There was no very 
perceptible change about her, except, perhaps, a little more 
shrinking in his presence, which he, not unnaturally, construed 
into growing aversion; but Ida entertained no more thoughts 
of taking her husband into her confidence. Giuseppe^s mouth 
must be sealed now at all events. 

“ The daughter of a murderess,^^ she kept repeating to her- 
self, amid the gayest scenes, and when her face wore its bright- 
est smiles. “ Oh, what would he say if he knew?^^ 


CHAPTEE XVIIL 

THE husband’s JEALOUSY. 

Things were in this position when one afternoon Eeginald 
Delamere returned from a drive by himself; for Ida had gone 
out earlier on a shopping expedition with Mme. d'Ancour, 
who was delighted to be seen in public with la telle Ameri- 
caine, and had cared for no other society. But he had not 
enjoyed the drive, for when the mind is moody and preoccu- 
pied, Nature’s sweetest influences appeal to it in vain. 

As he entered the pretty apartment, which served as ante- 
room or vestibule to the larger drawing-room. Mile. Mathilde 
started from her seat near the fire. 

‘‘ If monsieur pleases, madame is engaged of the most par- 
ticular — if monsieur would but wait a moment!” 

She opened the door into a side-room as she spoke, as if ex- 
pecting him to enter it. 

Engaged, Mathilde?” 

“ Yes, monsieur; it would be but for the space of one little 
moment.” 

And Eeginald, taking no notice of the girl’s flushed face 
and embarrassed air, went into the side-room, and throwing 
himself into a chair, took up a magazine which lay on the 
table. 

Probably, be told himself, it was some dress-maker or sew- 
ing-woman, to whom Ida was giving a private conference, and 
it made little difference where he bestowed himself for five or 
ten minutes. 

At all events, he was glad that she had returned home. 


126 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Her absence of late had grown so constant and habitual that 
it was rather unusual to find her at her own fireside. 

As he sat there, reading now and then a stray sentence from 
the pages before him, but of tener indulging in his own morbid 
reflections, the door of Ida^s drawing-room opened, and a 
swift footstep crossed the anteroom and went out. 

Not the footsteps of a woman. No! the color ebbed away 
from Keginald^s cheeks as he recognized the unmistakable 
tread of a man. 

Springing to his feet, he rushed into the anteroom, and 
would have opened the outer door had not Mile. Mathilde 
thrown herself before it in an affrighted sort of way. * 

Monsieur wants something? What is it that I caught?’^ 

‘'^tand out of the way!"^ was the answer ejaculated under 
her master’s breath. 

^‘Monsieur is ill, surely,’’ Mathilde cried, but she stepped 
back from the door notwithstanding; and Eeginald, throwing 
it open, ran down-stairs. 

But the halls and staircases were empty and deserted — the 
old portiere was not in her room, but came up the lower stair- 
way as Eeginald stood looking round. 

“ Ah! what was it, then, that monsieur would have?” de- 
manded the garrulous old woman. A thousand pardons that 
she was absent when monsieur did her the honor to descend; 
she had but stepped below to look at the pot' au feu, and — 
No, Eeginald wanted nothing but to know who it was had just 
gone out. 

Mme. Anastase maintained that nobody had gone out. 
There was the key on the table — was it then that people could 
fly through key. holes? 

Monsieur must see that it was simply impossible. 

“ Then who was it, Anastase, that went up to my wife’s 
room?” 

When, monsieur?” 

I can’t tell exactly when; some time in the course of the 
afternoon.” 

Anastase shook her head reflectively. 

No one, monsieur.” 

Anastase was quite sure of this; and Eeginald, annoyed and 
unsatisfied, was compelled once more to return upstairs. 

Ida sat at the table as he entered the drawing-room. Her 
upward glance had, to his prejudiced imagination, something 
of defiance in it. 

‘‘ Ida,” he said, walking straight up to her, who has been 
with you?” 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


127 


“ M,y dress-maker — a woman from Mademoiselle Micharde. 

‘‘ It was no woman that just went out, Ida. Do you think 
1 do not know a man^s footstep when I hear it?^^ 

“ Just now?^^ 

Her large eyes looked up into his face with the startled ex- 
pression of a deer brought finally to bay. She clasped her 
hands as if she would have pleaded for mercy. 

Ida/^ he said, in a husky voice, ‘‘ I insist upon knowing 
who this man was.""^ 

Then you can not know.^' 

There are points in the chase when the most timid animal 
will turn desperately upon its pursuers, and Ida had reached 
this point. 

Ida!^^ 

“ I refuse to answer your question she cried, desperately. 
‘‘ You have no right to catechize me thus — to spy upon all 
my actions as if I were an escaped criminal!^'' 

Her cheek grew pale as ashes, as she pronounced the last 
words, and she shuddered as if a chill had passed over her. 

Keginald stood gazing down upon her, scarcely crediting 
the evidence of his own senses. 

“ Ida,^^ he began, slowly, ‘‘ what does this mean?^^ 

I told you I should answer none of your questions/’ 

“ Then, what inferences am I to draw.^” he asked, with 
flashing eyes. 

‘‘What you please!” she said, passionately. “I am past 
caring now!” 

“ Ida, was it Colonel St. Argyle?” 

A sudden flush came to her cheeks — in the imminence of 
the actual danger she had never once imagined the course 
which his suspicions, steered by the unreasoning helm of jeal- 
ousy, might take! Colonel St. Argyle! Well, perhaps, it 
were better that he should be allowed to entertain these 
groundless fancies for awhile. Some explanation she must ac- 
cord to him — and anything — anything to keep him from ever 
approaching the dreadful secret of Giuseppe Antonardi. 

She sat in silence as these reflections passed hurriedly 
through her mind — and every second during which she uttered 
no refutation to the charge added to the array of evidence 
which was gradually accumulating against her, in her hus- 
band’s passion-fevered mind. 

“ I repeat, Ida,” he said, “ was this mysterious visitor 
Colonel St. Argyle?” 

“ You insult me by the question, Reginald.” 


128 IDA chalon-ek’s heart. 

‘‘ And you insult me still more by your silence I'’ he cried, 
passionately. 

Even if it were, is there any Jiarm in my receiving a gen- 
tleman visitor in my own drawing-room, at this period of the 
day?’"’ 

Eeginald hesitated. He could not say absolutely that there 
was, yet in his e3^es the whole thing, from beginning to end, 
was lacking in discretion and decency. 

“ There must be harm in an interview from which your 
husband is excluded,^’ he said, after a minute^s reflection. 

‘‘ Excluded, Eeginald! I was not aware that you were ex- 
cluded 

‘‘Was it not by your orders that Mathilde requested me to 
wait in the cedar-room until your visitor was gone?^^ 

“ ISFo — certainly not!^^ 

“ Then how do you account for the girEs conduct 

‘ I am not responsible for all of Mathilde^s freaks Ida 
answered, with some asperity. 

“ Mathilde 

Mr. Delamere opened the door, and called the French 
woman. 

In she came, glancing warily from her master to her mis- 
tress. 

“ Mathilde,/^ began the former, “ why were you so anxious 
that your mistress should not be intruded upoii just now?’"" 

“ Anxious? I was not anxious, monsieur. Only I supposed 
that madame would rather not be disturbed 

“ You received no orders from your mistress, then?^^ 

“ No, monsieur — certainly not.^^ 

You may go, Mathilde. 

For Eeginald Delamere, unreasonable and jealous as he 
was, was still too miujh of a gentleman to strive to obtain any 
further information by questioning his wife’s servant. 

Ida looked at him with flashing eyes and cheeks dyed of the 
deepest crimson as Mathilde softly closed the door behind her. 

“ I hope you are satisfled now,” she said, bitterly. “ It is 
a gentlemanly and a considerate thing, is it not, to lower your 
wife in the eyes of her own domestics?” 

For a moment Eeginald himself was shocked at this new 
view of his conduct, but the sullen spirit of recrimination took 
possession of him again in an instant. 

“ And do you think that I am in any way dignified by this 
conduct of yours?” 

We will not discuss it further, Eeginald,” she said, rising 


IDA chalon-er’s heart. 129 

with a weary look; it is time for me to dress for dinner. 
We are to have company. 

‘‘ As usual. 

Yes, as usual, she said, taking no notice of the implied 
taunt; “ Mrs. Longsdale is to be here and Lady Helen Dalton 
and Monsieur de Eamirou and the two Mrs. Jeffersons.^^ 

Keginald looked somewhat mollified. At all events, the 
obnoxious Colonel St. Argyle was not to be of the party. 
When Ida descended to her drawing-room once more, she ap- 
peared to unusual advantage — or as least so Eeginald thought. 
A dress of peach-colored moire antique, with draperies of 
costly white lace festooned over it, cut low in the corsage, and 
a puffed berthe of white illusion, half hiding, half revealing 
the lovely dimpled shoulders, which were like a child^s, formed 
the costume she had chosen for this special occasion, while a 
bunch of artificial peach-blossoms in her hair, so delicate that 
they almost simulated nature, was confined by a fillet of white 
ribbons whose ends fluttered on her shoulder. 

In old times — or in times but a few days removed — Mrs. 
Delamere would have danced up to her husband, laughingly 
demanding his opinion of her evening-dress; and then, this 
momentous question settled, would probably have seated her- 
self on a footstool at his knee, or perhaps climbed into his lap 
to have what she merrily termed a good old chat,^^ until 
such time as the arrival of her guests transformed her back 
again into the demurest of little hostesses. 

How, however, things were different, and Eeginald felt the 
change painfully. 

Ida walked toward the fire, the long trail of her peach-col- 
ored moire rustling softly over the carpet behind her, and, 
seating herself in a low faiitenil, took up a newspaper. 

He paced slowly up and down the room, his hands clasped 
behind him and his head slightly depressed, while the ticking 
of the little gilded mantel clock was all that broke the op- 
pressive silence. 

Presently the guests began to drop in, one after another, 
and the embarrassing prelude was at an end. 

The murmur of the soft, aristocratically modulated voices, 
the rustle of silken garments, and the odor of rich perfumes 
filled the air. People talked of the last ball and the coming 
soiree; the gentlemen discussed the latest development in 
politics, and the ladies commented on the new opera and its 
singers — a trifling, froth-like bubble of conversation. And 
Eeginald, even while he seemed to listen courteously to Mrs. 
Longsdale’s commonplace dissertations on the superior ad- 


130 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEAET. 


vantages of a republican form of government, was thinking 
within himself, not without bitterness, that they were like 
children walking over the flower - draped carpet which is 
stretched over a precipice. Could they but read the inner life 
of host and hostess, who were receiving them so smilingly; 
could they penetrate into the secret of the heart — well, this 
was a world of hollow smiles and false show, Eeginald Dela- 
mere told himself. What right had he to look for an exemp- 
tion from the general rule? 

At length the conversation drifted to a divorce in fashion- 
able circles, which was then the topic of small-talk everywhere. 

‘‘ It^s dreadful, isn^t it?^^ said Mrs. Longsdale, lifting her 
flaxen eyebrows. ‘‘But then, you see, she never cared for 
him; it was only his money she married him for. 

“ A regular mariage de convenance,^’ added her husband. 

“Such things happen very frequently now,^^ said Lady 
Helen Dalton, carelessly. “ Thank you. Monsieur de Ea- 
mirou, just half that banana — not any more wine, please. 
But did you hear, Mrs. Longsdale, that Colonel St. Argyle^s 
name was mixed up in the affair?^^ 

Ida glanced up suddenly, as she was toying with her silver 
nut-cracker, and met the piercing gaze of her husband. In 
an instant her eyes were averted, and strive as she would to 
repress the rebellious blood, it mounted to her cheek in crim- 
son billows. Why did she blush? Not because the name of 
Colonel St. Argyle signifled a particle to her, one way or the 
other: but simply because she felt her husband to be watching 
her with jealous suspicion, and because it w^as highly desirable 
that she should not blush. She could have torn her hair in 
anger and mortification at herself. 

“ Colonel St.’Argyle!^^ echoed Mrs. Longsdale, sagaciously. 
“ I dare say he^s just the sort of man that a silly, infatuated 
creature like Marie du Plessis would fall in love with; but I 
don’t think he ever cared for her — ” 

“ Oh,” said Lady Helen, satirically, “ he’s a regular lady- 
killer, who seems to have no other occupation than that of 
flirting with every pretty woman in Paris!” 

“ He ought to have his head broken,” said Mr. Longsdale, 
vindictively. “ The sanctity of married life should be respect- 
ed more than it is in this unaccountable city of Paris. I’m 
sure I don’t know what has become of all the happy mar- 
riages. There are no such things nowadays!” 

“ Here is one,” said Lady Helen, placing her hand caress- 
ingly on Mrs. Delamere’s shoulder. “ It isn’t necessary to go 
very far for a refutation to your theory, Mr. Longsdale. I 


IDA CHALOXER^S HEART. 


131 


think our host and hostess of to-day will afford a pretty fair 
illustration that there are such things as happy marriages still 
extant 

Ida never lifted her eyes from the painted wreath of violets 
upon her plate; and Eeginald said, speaking slowly: 

“Yes, Lady Helen, you are quite right. My wife and I 
are, at this moment, perhaps, the happiest couple in Paris 

Oh, the bitter satire of his tone! the cadence of contemptu- 
ous scorn! To think that those gay triflers should accept it 
all as Gospel truth, and never suspect the hidden under-cur- 
rent of irony! 

As his voice died away, Ida looked up into his face with a 
wild, desperate appeal in her large, liquid eyes — a mute en- 
treaty that he would abstain from this sneering comment, 
which was so much harder to endure than silence; but there 
was no mercy in his expression. 

“ If I only dared tell him!^^ she thought; “ but no, I must 
endure it all in silence 

When at length the party broke up and Eeginald Dela- 
mere and his wife were left tete-a-tete, neither of them alluded 
to the episode of the evening that was still so fresh in both of 
their memories. Eeginald was thinking bitterly of the con- 
firmation he had heard of his own private opinion concerning 
Colonel St. Argyle; and Ida, as she sat before the fire, dream- 
ily gazing into its red, dying embers, was repeating to herself: 

“He might have mercy upon me! he might have a little 
compassion !^^ 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

THE BREACH WIDENS. 

“ Ida, my sweetest — what! weeping all by yourself? Tell 
me, mia carissima, what grieves you?^^ 

Mme. Avioli sat down beside Ida Delamere, and gently lift- 
ing the fair, disheveled head from its hiding-place among the 
satin sofa-pillows drew it to her bosom, heedless of the em- 
broidered carriage-shawl of white China crape that she wore. 

Ida threw both arms round the countesses neck and wept 
freely upon her shoulder. 

“ Ah, Madame Avioli — Lucille— I am so miserable 

“ Miserable? You, my sunbeam — the very incarnation of 
youth and happiness !e^ 

“ Happiness!^^ echoed Ida, bitterly. “ I do not know what 
it means. I tell you I am most miserable 1^^ 

“ Ah,ee said Mme. Avioli, smoothing the tangled silky curl§ 


132 


IDA CHALOKEE’S HEAKT. 


which were so disordered, “ you have then found out, Ida 
mia, that there is a dark and cruel wave that flows through 
lifers brightest current — age and the most skillful voyagers 
can not avoid it!^^ 

‘‘ Did I not tell you long ago, Lucille, that I had discovered 
life was not all roses?’ ^ asked Ida, mournfully. 

Tell me about it, sweet one,” murmured the countess, 
caressingly. 

Ida lifted her head and looked at Mme. A.violi with wistful, 
heavy eyes. 

“ I can not! Oh, Lucille, this is the hardest of it all. It 
is a sorrow I can not, must not breathe to a living soul!” 

‘‘ Pardon me, Ida, I would not intrude myself on your con- 
fidence, yet is it not something to know that one heart sym- 
pathizes truly with you whatever may be your grief?” 

‘‘ Oh, Lucille, jit is everything!” sobbed Ida. You love 
me. You believe in me, whoever else deserts me, I should 
die without you, dear, dearest Lucille. ” 

“Not so bad as that, my little vehement tropic bird,” 
smiled Mme. Avioli, soothingly. “ You have your husband.” 

“My husband!” Ida’s lips involuntarily compressed, and 
the words she had nearly uttered remained unspoken. 

No; cold and cruel as he had been, he was her husband still, 
and she was in duty bound to cover his faults with the veil of 
wife-like silence. Not even to the dove-eyed friend of her 
bitterest solitude would she breathe a word of complaint. 

And Mme. Avioli’s next sentence seemed almost a refiection 
of her own hurriedly shaped thoughts. 

“ And, Ida, remember that I am older than you, and don’t 
for a moment think I mean to be impertinent or dictatorial; 
but you must never allow yourself to forget that your hus- 
band stands to you, God excepted, in the first and nearest 
place in all the world. Do not let any trifling misunderstand- 
ing, any word forgotten, perchance, as soon as it in uttered, 
come between your soul and his. Oh, Ida, I have known so 
many shipwrecked lives that, but for this one sunken rock — 
lack of confidence between husband and wife — might have 
been happy to their end. ” 

Ida listened in silence to Mme. Avioli’s sweet, sad voice. 
She recognized the truth of what she said; yet she could but 
tell herself, in very truth, Eeginald was more to blame than 
she was — that she was but the helpless victim of a chain of 
cruel circumstances. Neither could she have explained to 
her friend, inasmuch as she scarcely yet fully comprehended it 
herself^ that the child-like, spontaneous aSection — it was 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


133 


hardly love — which had afc first brightened her romantic union 
with her boy-husband was beginning to lade away, leaving in 
its stead a growing indifference. Love must be fostered and 
cherished by sunshine and tenderness; it can not long with- 
stand what seems to be deliberate thwartings and cold aver- 
sions. Eeginaid and Ida could not read the secrets of each 
other^s heart; and so the breach widened between them day 
by day and hour by hour. 

Mme. Avioli felt this, yet she was powerless to help the 
young people. She had said all she could, both to Ida and 
her husband, and she recognized too tdeeply the truth that 
there is a period in all married lives when no external hand 
can avail to aid, when the battle of fate must be waged alone, 
to venture on any further interference. 

‘‘ Ida, she said, ‘‘see how lovely the sunshine is. Shall 
we go out for a drive? Come; half an hour in the fresh air 
will do you a world of good, and restore the carnation to those 
white cheeks of yours. 

“ But my eyes?'’ 

“ Bathe them, and brush out your tangled hair, and throw 
on a shawl, and you will be ready. Don’t refuse me. I have 
set my heart on your companionship for a little while.” 

And Ida, after many excuses and remonstrances, yielded to 
the countess’s solicitations. 

Mme. Avioli ’s carriage, a low, open barouche or drag, lined 
with blue satin, and painted a deep Mazarine blue, was at 
the door, drawn by a pair of magnificent black steeds, which 
the countess delighted in driving herself, with the groom sit- 
ting up behind with folded arms, and a countenance which be- 
tokened mild resignation to his mistress’s freaks, whatever 
shape they might take. 

The cool, invigorating air and the rapid motion, together 
with Mme. Avioli’s lively chat, soon brought back a flush to 
Ida’s cheeks and a momentary sparkle of animation to her 
eyes, and she was looking quite like herself again, when a 
voice sounded in her ear, making her start in spite of herself. 

“ How fortunate I am in meeting you! and where are you 
going?” 

It was Colonel St. Argyle, who had ridden up to the side of 
their low carriage, with difficulty restraining the speed of his 
handsome horse, whose bit and mane were flecked with foam, 
while his impatient caracolings and arching neck presented a 
striking spectacle of equine beauty. 

“ Anywhere — nowhere!” said Mme. Avioli. “ The fact is. 
Colonel St. Argyle, we don’t know ourselves,” 


134 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


‘‘ Then I am going nowhere and anywhere/’ said Colonel 
St. Argyle, laughing. 

“ But suppose we don’t care for an escort?” 

‘‘You would not be so cruel as to send me away!” pleaded 
the colonel, looking very handsome, and very much in despair, 
as he still rode along by the side of the carriage. 

“ You must make yourself very amusing, then,” said 
Mme. Avioli; “ for you haven’t an idea what a delicious little 
chat we were having. ” 

“ I shall be inspired by the society I am in,” exclaimed the 
colonel, gallantly. ^ 

But Ida, beyond a few murmured words of necessary greet- 
ing, had neither spoken nor looked up. She was sorry they 
had chanced to encounter St. Argyle, whom she was begin- 
ning to dislike. She would have much preferred a continu- 
ance of her Ute-a-Ute with the countess, and, moreover, she 
was unwilling that Keginald should have even the shadow of 
an excuse for his unreasonable jealousy. 

“ Have I brought the spirit of silence upon Mrs. Dela- 
mere?” gayly demanded Colonel St. Argyle, after one or two 
unavailing attempts to draw her into the conversation. 

“ How is it, Ida?” laughingly asked the countess. “ It 
must be you, colonel, for she was talkative enough before we 
met you.” 

Ida looked up with a sudden sparkle in her eyes to disclaim 
the charge, for she would not have Colonel St. Argyle suppose 
that the accident of his companionship affected her either one 
way or the other — when, suddenly the tramp of several horses’ 
feet dashed past them over the smooth causeway, and Ida felt, 
like a baneful gleam of withering lightning, the flash of her 
husband s eyes upon her — stern, reproachful, bitterly scornful. 

“ Mr. Delamere!” cried Mme. Avioli, “ the foremost of all 
that dashing equestrian party! But why does he not stop and 
speak to us?” 

“ Again,” thought Ida, her hands involuntarily tightening 
over each other, as they lay in her lap. “ Of what use is it 
for me to strive against Fate? I may as well abandon myself 
to the overmastering current at once.” 

Meanwhile, Begin aid Delamere, slackening the speed of his 
horse, when they were some little distance beyond, allowed his 
companions, Mr. Longsdale and Sir John Dalton, to overtake 
him. 

“ Was that St. Argyle talking to your wife and the Count- 
ess Avioli?” demanded Sir John, considerably out of breath 
with his gallop. “ I thought I recognized that white horse of 


IDA CHALOIIER^S HEART. 135 

his; but faith, we swept by so like a whirlwind, that I had 
much ado to keep my seat."’^ 

Yes, it was/^ said Mr. Longsdale. ‘‘ Queer story, isn^t 
it, about St. Argyle and that poor chap, Du Plessis?^^ 

“ 1 haven^t heard it. Any new development?’^ eagerly 
asked Sir John, on the qui vive for fashionable scandal. 

“ Why, it seems that Argyle has a pretty little way of gam- 
bling, and he hasn’t any particular income of his own to spend. 
Madame Du Plessis has been in the habit of asking her hus- 
band for fabulous sums of money, giving this, that, and the 
other excuse for her extravagant requirements. Poor Du 
Plessis never discovered it until the other day, when it leaked 
out, in some of the evidence in court, that &s money was all 
gone to pay St. Argyle’s gambling debts.” 

“ The scoundrel!” ejaculated Sir John. “ 1 have no pa- 
tience with the laws of society which allow a villain like St. 
Argyle to go unpunished, and visit all their vengeance upon 
the weak, helpless women.” 

Longsdale shrugged his shoulders. 

“ If there were no women like Maria Du Plessis,” he said, 

there would be no men like St. Argyle. Moreover, they 
say Du Plessis isn’t the only husband in Paris who has igno- 
rantly paid for the support of this fashionable villain.” 

Eeginald Delamere listened to these disclosures in silence, 
mentally resolving that if he had any shadow of authority left, 
Ida should break off all association with this man. 

When, at length. Colonel St. Argyle had left them, and 
Mme. Avioli had turned her horses’ heads homeward, she said 
to Ida: 

Cara, I don’t like that man.” 

‘‘ I thought you were great friends?” 

“ By no means — merely friendly acquaintances. I did like 
him very well at first; there was a freshness and originality 
about the man that were very winning; but instead of the 
frank, generous nature one expects to underlie such an exter- 
nal as that, he seems to me cold, crafty, and cunning. More- 
over, I don’t like the manner in which he appears in this Du 
Plessis divorce case. I think hereafter I shall be coldly civil 
to him; nothing more. And you, Ida, are much too child- 
like and beautiful ever to allow your name to be mentioned as 
that of a special friend of his.” 

‘‘ I do not particularly fancy him,” said Ida, briefly. 

And it may be only a fancy, dearest; but I have some- 
times imagined your husband was not exactly pleased with 
your receiving the attentions of this fascinating Lothario. 


136 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Don’t imagine me a meddling old gossip, Ida. 1 only speak 
from the overprecaution of a loving heart.” 

As she spoke she tried to get a glance into her companion’s 
eyes, but Ida held her head resolutely downward, so that the 
drooping black lace folds of her veil hid her profile, and Mme. 
Avioli was forced to be content with the tones of her voice, 
as she replied: 

I shall certainly discourage any more visits from him in 
the future.” 

‘‘But,” she added to herself, “ of what avail will it be? 
The harm is all done. ” 

As she slowly ascended the broad, carpeted staircase that 
led to her apartments, Mathilde met her. 

“ That man has been here, madame.” 

“ Impossible!” ejaculated Ida, pushing back the jetty curls 
from her forehead. “ He was not to return for a fortnight at 
least.” 

“ He has been here, madame, nevertheless,” persisted Ma- 
thilde, “ and waited nearly an hour for you.” 

Ida sat down with a gesture of despairing weariness. 

“ How long has he been gone, Mathilde?” 

“About fifteen minutes, madame. He seemed very much 
annoyed at not being able to see you, and left this note.” 

“ I am glad Eeginald was out, at all events,” thought Ida, 
as, without removing her hat and gloves, she unfolded the slip 
of paper on which were written these words: 

“Cara Sigis-orij^-a ” (“The insolence of the man!” 
thought Ida, indignantly), — “ 1 find myself in a position from 
which only an immediate supply of money can extricate me. 
I know that I promised not to annoy you again at present; 
but what is a poor man to do when fate and destiny pit them- 
selves against him? A thousand pounds of good English 
money are what I want and what I ntuH have. It seems 
much, but, after all, what is it compared with the value of 
what I hide within my faithful, my unrevealing bosom? With 
this trifling sum, which you, siguorina, can easily raise, I 
shall be able to keep myself from pestering you with entreaties 
and complaints, for at least one year, and perhaps longer. 
Surely you can not hesitate, signorina. But in case you do 
not see fit to extend a generous helping hand to one who has 
ever been the sport of an unpropitious fortune, I must try the 
alternative of an appeal to the signor, your husband, whom I 
have never yet had the pleasure of seeing. To-morrow, at an 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 137 

early hour, I will call to receive your answer, and, as I trust, 
your beautiful consideration for my discretion. 

“ Yours, humbly and hopefully, G. A. 

The paper dropped into Ida’s lap? A thousand pounds! 
Uow was she to raise the money? For, that it must be ready, 
she knew Giuseppe too well to doubt, unless she chose to have 
the fatal secret blazoned abroad to the greedy curiosity of the 
world. She had jewelry, to be sure, but she had parted with 
all the lesser articles, and what remained — her diamonds, 
corals, and cameos, as well as sundry other costly trinkets — 
would be at once missed and inquired after, in case she vent- 
ured to try and dispose of them. Giuseppe had kept her lib- 
eral supply of pin-money drained for the last few weeks, and 
she was almost, if not absolutely, penniless. No; the more 
she considered it in her own mind, the more convinced she 
was that the only way to obtain the required sum was through 
a direct appeal to her husband’s liberality. 

“ Reginald is always generous,” she thought, with a pang 
of remorse at the consciousness that she was the unwilling 
cause of this confidence and generosity being abused. ‘‘ He 
will give it me; but oh! if he should question me as to what it 
is for! No, I dare not ask so much at once. I will pawn my 
diamonds for half the money — Mathilde knows how it can be 
done — and then, in a very short space of time, I can redeem 
them again.” 

She started up, retying her bonnet strings. 

Mathilde,” she said, hurriedly, get on your things and 
come with me. I want you to show me the place where they 
advance money on jewels — the place, you know, that is like a 
private house. 

But, madame, not in this dress! All Paris would know 
before to-morrow morning that Madame Helamere had pawned 
her jewels!” 

Ida looked down on her blue silk dress, with its overskirt of 
blue velvet, and the shawl of India cashmere which accom- 
panied it, and felt bitterly what a child she was in all the es- 
sentials of worldly wisdom. 

‘‘ What shall I do, Mathilde?” 

Madame must wear a plain black dress — the gravest she 
has — and I will lend her an aqiice scuUmi, and my black worst- 
ed hood, with its veil.” 

And Mathilde, who was intensely fond of tableaus, private 
theatricals, and all the incidentals of semi-dramatic life, at- 


138 IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 

tired her young mistress with infinite satisfaction for their 
stolen expedition. 

Ida’s sensations are hardly to be described as she went down- 
stairs side by side with Mathilde, shrinking beneath the aston- 
ished stare of old Anastase, the concierge, 

‘‘It is my cousin, Anastase — my cousin, onl}^” glibly lied 
the French maid as the old woman rose up in her lurking- 
place to unlock the door. 

“ And when, then, did she come in, your cousin?” de- 
manded Anastase, as if the riddle were still unsolved in her 
mind. 

Mathilde laughed. 

“ Be easy, good Anastase. It is not I who will tell madame 
of the little naps, so refreshing, which you take when the key 
is in the door. 1 shall be old myself some day, and infirm.” 

“It is false!” grumbled Anastase; but she let them pass 
without any further comment, and Ida breathed freer when 
they were fairly in the street. 

“ Is this a pawnbrokers shop?” she whispered to Mathilde, 
when at length they sat in what looked like an elegant private 
parlor, with an open piano, and plants and birds in the sun- 
shiny windows. 

“ Hush, madame!” 

Mathilde motioned toward the door, through which was en- 
tering a bald-headed old gentleman, in a suit of glossy, irre- 
proachable black. With this personage, by dint of Mathilde’s 
assistance, their business was speedily transacted. The dia- 
monds were pledged for a sum amounting to five hundred 
pounds in English money, and Ida, carefully concealing in her 
bosom the little crimson paper ticket, which was her only 
surety for the glittering stones so admired during the winter 
in Paris, left the handsome private house, whose proprietor so 
obligingly “ lent money on temporary security.” 

To Ida’s infinite relief, Reginald did not come in until she 
was dressed for dinner. 

“You are late to-night,” she said. 

“ A few minutes late,” was his cold reply; “ but as I am 
ready in time, it does not signify.” 

“ The carriage is at the door,” announced Achille, for Mr. 
and Mrs. Delarnere were going out to dinner that evening, at 
Mme. Avioli’s, to meet a select party of friends. 

“ Are you ready, Ida?” he asked. 

“Yes, quite ready,” she answered, “but — Reginald — ” 
She stopped, half-way to the door, with a surprised expression. 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 1^9 

I wanted to ask you something before we went out/’ began 
Ida, hurriedly. 

“.What is it 

“ I — I have not as much money as 1 require at present/^ 
began Ida, twisting and turning the gold links of fringe that 
hung from her bracelets. “ L should like it, if you will give 
me some to-night.” 

“How much do you wish?” asked Reginald, pleased at 
Ida’s asking for a favor at his hands, and expecting to hear a 
trifling sum named, as he knew that she had all along been 
liberally supplied with money. 

“ Five hundred pounds,” was the answer, spoken in a low 
tone, with her eyes still cast down, for our poor little Ida was 
not an accomplished dissembler. 

“ Five hundred pounds!” echoed Reginald, in surprise and 
displeasure. “ Do you want to buy a pair of carriage horses, 
or a villa beyond the Paris lines?” 

Ida, more embarrassed than ever, murmured something in 
a scarcely audible tone of voice about “ necessary expenses.” 

Reginald’s suspicions, roused by this constraint of manner 
into an unwonted activity, took a giant stride into the dark 
regions of possibility; his brow grew dark, and the veins start- 
ed out like knotted cords around his temples. In an instant 
the words Sir John Dalton had spoken that morning came 
back into his mind as vividly as if written thereon in char- 
acters of flame. This, then, was the meaning of Ida’s very 
unusual appeal. She could not speak kindly to him for his 
own sake, when she saw him pining at her side an unloved 
husband; but she could bring down her pride when Colonel 
St. Argyle’s unpaid debts were in question. 

Reginald Delamere’s mental arguments were not logical — 
people under the influence of strong passion seldom are logical. 
In the seething maelstrom of his mind, possibilities became 
probabilities, and probabilities assumed the shape of what 
actually is. Ida was arraigned, tried, and condemned, at the 
bar of her husband’s heart, during the half minute in which 
he stood looking down at her with a sterner face than she had 
ever beheld. 

But, he resolved within himself, he would be calm — he 
would not judge rashly, however overwhelming the evidence 
might be; and with a mighty effort he restrained the torrent 
of reproachful words which rose to his lips, and asked, as col- 
lectedly as possible: 

“ What do you want this money for?” 


140 


IDA CHA LONER S HE AM. 


There was a moment^s silence; he repeated the question in 
a colder, more metallic voice than ever. 

1 can not tell you, Eeginald!^^ 

Had he been less excited, he might perhaps have read in the 
anguish and humiliation of her voice an appeal to the noble 
feeling of his nature, but he was past all such delicate dis- 
crimination now. 

“ You can not tell me,^^ he repeated in a voice that was 
like muffled thunder. ‘‘ Then I can tell you one thing, ma- 
dame — no money of mine shall ever go to pay the debts of 
that miserable scoundrel — 

He stopped abruptly. Ida was looking at him with such an 
expression of pale horror as convinced him of the accuracy of 
his suspicions. Yet, infuriated as he was, he dared not say 
more with that innocent rosebud of a face turned toward his 
own, and checked himself, the last words still unspoken: 

‘‘ he said, abruptly. I will not give you five hun- 
dred pounds, Mrs. Delame re, although I am sorry to cause 
you any inconvenience in your financial arrangements.^^ 

Ida shrunk away from his tone. Actual anger she might 
have combated with, but this sneering Mephistophelean mood 
seemed to blight her as the desert simoon blights all that is 
fair and tender in its path. 

What shall I do.^’"’ she cried, half aloud, clasping her 
jeweled hands. ‘‘ Oh, what shall I do?^^ 

You should have asked yourself that question long ago, 
madame,’^ was the cold reply, as the husband drew on and 
buttoned his lavender kid gloves. ‘‘ I certainly shall not help 
you out of the dilemma. Allow me to hand you down to the 
carriage.’^ 

‘‘ I can not go out to-night, Reginald, said Ida, pressing 
her hand to her forehead. I think I am going to have a 
headache.’^ 

What convenient things headaches are!^^ sneered her hus- 
band. “ Perhaps it was brought on by 3 ^our carriage ride with 
Colonel St. Argyle for an escort. 

He rang the bell violently. 

Mathilde, who was just about to sit down to a cozy little 
game of cards in Anastase^s room, below stairs, answered the 
summons. 

“ Your mistress is ill, attend to her!^^ was his stern behest, 
and the wondering Mathilde removed her young lady^s glitter- 
ing raiment, unclasped her jewels, disengaged her flower- 
wreath from her hair, and deluged her with colognes and 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART* 141 

scented waters before she would leave her to the blessed balsam 
of silence and solitude. 

“ 1 will try to go to sleep now, if you will leave me, Ma- 
thilde,^^ she said. 

And she did sleep, after awhile, in spite of the fears and • 
suspicions which harassed her mind, the heavy, cheerless sleep 
which exhausts without refreshing. Nor did she know what 
might perhaps have altered the fast-turning current of her 
life, that Eeginald, as the evening wore on, came to her bed- 
side, and bending over her, pressed a kiss full of grief, and pas- 
sion, and wounded love, upon her lovely lips. 

“ She can sleep, he thought, “ while 1 keep a lonely vigil. 
Oh, my wife, my false wife, whom I love so tenderly, although 
her heart has gone from me forever!’^ 


CHAPTER XX. 

REGINALD SEEKS FOR HELP. 

Mme. la Comtesse Avioli was sitting at her late breakfast 
the next morning when a card was brought up to her. 

“ Mr. Delamere,^^ she read, in some surprise. “ Show him 
up at once.^^ 

Mine. Avioli^s morning-room was bright and cheerful, with 
a deep bay-window full of hyacinths in full blossom, looking 
toward the south. The carpet was of a drab color with crim- 
son arabesques woven through it in a Persian pattern, and the 
furniture of brown and crimson satin was not so gay as to dis- 
tract the attention of the visitor from the bric-a-brac cabinet, 
the rare little statuettes, and the gem-like paintings which 
decorated the sober brown walls. Books, newspapers, and 
magazines lay on the breakfast-table, and a bright fire of 
Liverpool coal blazed in the grate, for Mme. Avioli could not 
endure the foreign fashion of scanty wood -fires. 

She herself looked fairer, younger, and more like a pearl 
than ever in her blue cashmere robe du matin with a border 
of golden wheat embroidered just above the hem, and gold 
tassels depending from the taper waist. A tiny coiffure of 
Mechlin lace threaded with blue ribbon was pinned with a jew- 
eled arrow among the luxuriant braids and tresses of her lus- 
trous auburn hair (the graceful tribute which Parisian ladies 
pay to middle age) and the bloom upon her cheeks was even 
fresher and more delicate than when she stood in the midst 
of crowded evening assemblies or in the heated atmosphere of 
the ball-room. 


IDA CHALONER^S HEAR!. 


142 

She looked up with astonishment at Eeginald Delamere^s 
haggard countenance as he entered her presence. 

‘‘ What has procured me the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Dela- 
mere?’^ she asked, playfully, as she motioned him toward a 
T3hair. But his grave face did not relax in the slightest degree. 

‘‘ You will excuse me, Madame Avioli, if I seem blunt and 
precipitate,^^ he said, “ when you learn the object of my visit. 
It is about Ida.^^ 

About Ida? She is well, I hope?’^ 

“ Yes, she is well, I suppose — but — she is miserable, and so 
aml.^^ 

Mme. Avioli^s expressive face betokened her sincere sympa- 
thy and concern. 

‘‘ I have long seen that all is not right between you, Mr. 
Delamere,^^ she said, earnestly, ‘‘ but I have not ventured to 
speak to Ida on a subject so delicate. If you, however, will 
be more frank with me, and if my advice can avail aught, I 
need not say how entirely I shall sympathize with you. 

“ I will be frank, Madame Avioli, said Eeginald, and he 
kept his word, beginning at the beginning, and telling her 
the whole story of the estrangement growing out of doubts 
and uncertainties, and ending in actual alienation, which had 
risen up between them during the past few weeks. 

‘‘ 1 appeal to you, Madame Avioli, he continued, as 
Ida^s dearest friend, for advice and counsel both for her and 
myself 

“Forgive me, Mr. Delamere,^^ said the countess, gently, 
“ if 1 say that it seems to me you are both to blame in some 
degree. Ida has been careless and unthinking; you have, per- 
haps, failed to make sufficient allowance for her youth and in- 
experience. As for this fancy of yours, that she cares for 
Colonel St. Argyle, I believe it to be utterly unfounded.^'’ 

“ I wish I could agree with you,^^ said Eeginald, bitterly. 

“ You would, if you were not a prejudiced witness.'’^ 

“ Then, how do you account for her asking for this sum of 
money, the destined use of which she is determined to keep a 
secret from me?'^ 

“ I can not account for it at all as yet,^^ said Mme. ^Vvioli, 
with slow thoughtfulness, “ but I am quite certain that Ida 
will eventually be able to explain it to your entire satisfac- 
tion. 

“ But why not now?’^ 

“ There may be a great many reasons. She may be tempt- 
ed to indulge in some extravagance which she hardly likes to 
confide to you. 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 143 

I have not been so niggardly with her as to give cause for 
any such timidity/^ said Delamere, bitterly. 

Oh/^ pursued Mme. Avioli, “ there may be other rea- 
sons. You must be gentle with her, Mr. Delamere, and very 
tolerant — remember what a child she still is!^^ 

I forget }iothing, Madame Avioli/^ he exclaimed, passion- 
ately, “ except the one grand, overmastering fear of my life, 
that I forced her — yes, forced is the word,'’^ he added, bitterly 
— ‘‘ into a marriage that has since grown hateful in her eyes. 
I loved her dearly— in spite of everything, I love her still — but 
every day that rises and sets over my head brings more deeply 
to me the conviction that she has ceased to care for me. In 
fact, 1 sometimes doubt whether she ever loved me.-’^ 

‘‘ Then why did she marry you? In your country these 
things are not, as with us, the result of calculation and 
policy. 

Because she was too young, too much of a child, fully to 
realize what she was doing. I should have given her more 
time to reflect; it was all my fault. 

Mme. Avioli made no answer; she was thinking. 

And 1?'’^ she said, after a short interval of silence. 
“ What is it that you wish me to do, Mr. Delamere?’^ 

Your influence with Ida is very great, Madame Avioli, 
and if you could talk with her as you women knowhow to talk 
— if you could in any way ascertain the mystery of her 
changed behavior, or learn whether her heart is really estranged 
from me beyond the possibility of recall — ” 

Be easy, my friend,’^ said Mme. Avioli, with the soft 
shadow of pitying tenderness in her eyes. I will do my best 
for you, and for her as well. 1 will see Ida this very day, and 
before the sun is down I hope to convince you how idle and 
foLindationless are all your fears and conjectures.'’^ 

Eeginald wrung the soft, friendly hand she extended to him. 
‘‘ If you can do that, Madame Avioli, I shall value your 
friendship as the most priceless gift of my life-time. And 
when will you come to our hotel ?’^ 

I donT know; I canT exactly tell yet; but it will be some 
time in the course of the day. Ida is well, you tell me?^^ 

‘‘ No — not exactly well. She looked pale as a ghost when 
I left her this morning. 

Poor child, said Mme. Avioli, tenderly. Well, it will 
not be long before I shall see her.'’^ 

After Mr. Delamere had taken his leave, Mme. Avioli sat 
for some time musing over the recital he had given her. 

It is the old, old story, she said to herself, with a smile. 


144 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAKT. 


“ Love^ which deems that the roses of spring-time never shall 
fade; youth, which is impatient of the least ripple in the serene 
tide of its perfect bliss. But with two hearts as true and noble 
as his and hers, the shadow can be but temporary. Eising, 
she rang the bell. It was answered by her maid, a middle- 
aged, substantial-looking woman, very different from the but- 
terfly-like Mathilde. Ellen,^^ she said, order the carriage 
at once, and attend me in my room. 1 am going out.^^ 

‘‘ So early, madame?^^ 

‘‘Yes, so early. 

And the clock was striking twelve as Mme. Avioli^s carriage 
rolled away from her door. For her heart was in her task, 
and she felt that she could not rest until it was completed. 

As the light little equipage whirled through the streets, 
Mme. Avioli chanced to look up at a street corner, where a 
little crowd had collected round the caricatures in a shop-win- 
dow, and in the midst of the pretty concourse, one face looked 
out at her — the face of a middle-aged man, with his hands in 
his pockets, who was leaning idly against a lamp-post, his lips 
compressed as in the act of whistling. 

Their eyes met — those of the high-bred lady in her satin- 
lined barouche, and the lounging pariah of the streets — and he 
lifted his hat from his brows and bowed low, with mock 
courtesy. 

She sat, silent and pale, as if she had suddenly been trans- 
formed to stone, and noticed his recognition neither by word 
nor look. 

“ Drive faster, she said to the coachman, in a voice so 
husky and unnatural that the man turned round to look at her 
in surprise. “You are creeping like a snail through the 
streets. Drive faster, 1 say!’^ 

And then, as the servant quickened the speed of his horses, 
she called out once more: 

“Home, Sebastian. 

“ 1 thought, madame — ’’ 

“No matter what you thought. Home, I say!^^ 

And, as the horses^ heads were turned, and they were speed- 
ing along through the sunlit beauty of the streets, Mme. Avioli 
sunk back among the cushions, pale and breathless. 

“ I can go nowhere noiv,^^ she murmured, unconscious that 
the words had passed her lips. 

Meantime the man at the street corner had looked keenly 
after the carriage-wheels. 

“ A fine turnout,^^ he said to a fellow-lounger. “ Now, I 
wonder whose it may be?^^ 


IDA CHALOi^BR^S HEART. 


145 


‘‘The dark-blue one with the black horses? Humph 
ejaculated the other, in all the pride of superior knowledge, 
“ that is the carriage of Madame la Oomtesse Avioli/^ 

“ Madame la Oomtesse Avioli,^^ repeated the man, slowly. 
“ Ma — dame la Oomtesse Avioli! A pretty name — and a 
pretty carriage. Well, well, Ik's a fine thing to be rich.''^ 


OHAPTER XXL 
‘‘who is my m other ?^^ 

Ida Delamere had experienced an involuntary sensation of 
relief when she saw her husband go out directly their silent 
and unsocial breakfast was concluded; for she knew that 
Giuseppe’s hateful presence might be forced upon her at al- 
most any hour, and she felt that she had neither strength nor 
spirit for the plots and counterplots necessary to conceal his 
visits from the husband, whose suspicions were already awak- 
ened in no common degree. 

But the morning hours went by, and still Giuseppe did not 
come. 

“ I can not wage this unequal war with circumstances any 
longer,’^ she thought, wearily, as she sat in her boudoir, at 
about two o’clock, waiting for Mathilde to announce the pres- 
ence of the wily Italian. “ Reginald has ceased to care for 
me! nor do I wonder at it. I am sick and weary of myself 
and this ever- widening net- work of lies and subterfuges. I can 
even see that my beauty is beginning to fade — the beauty 
which won his heart so brief awhile ago. Yes, it would have 
been better if we had never met, and sometimes I am wicked 
enough to feel that it might be better if we should never meet 
again. These Parisian laws of divorce — they have their ad- 
vantages after all. But what am I thinking about?” and Ida 
checked herself with a shudder as Mathilde, the French maid, 
noiselessly opened the door. 

“ Giuseppe Antonardi is here, madame!” 

“ Very well, Mathilde. Remain in the ante-chamber and 
see that no one enters to disturb us.” 

Mathilde withdrew, and the next instant Giuseppe entered 
the room. 

“ I hope I behold madame this morning in the enjoyment 
of health,” was his smooth greeting; but Ida paid no atten- 
tion to it. 

“ Giusepe,” she said, speaking in the even, monotonous 
way of one who recites a well-conned lesson. “I have but 


146 


IDA CHALOKER’S heart. 


five hundred pounds tor you this morning. I tried my best to 
get the whole sum you named, but I could not — it was impos- 
sible!’^ 

“ Monsieur, your husband, perhaps—’’ 

‘‘ I asked him for it, Giuseppe, and he refused it!” 

It was with a feeling of unutterable humiliation that she 
spoke those words. Had she then fallen so low that she must 
confess to this foreign adventurer how little influence she had 
left with her husband? 

Giuseppe contracted his forehead until the black brows 
seemed to meet over his eyes. 

“ I asked you for a thousand pounds.” v 

I know it, and 1 have told you why I have but five hun- 
dred. Take it, Giuseppe, and be gone, or do your worst!” 

The tone of despairing apathy warned the villain that he 
could go no further in his extortions with safety. 

Bene!^^ he ejaculated, stroking his chin, it madame 
really could do no better for one who is faithful to the interest 
of her family,” and he took the folded bills she had laid upon 
the malachite stand. 

‘‘ Of my family!” she repeated, bitterly. 

Yes, madame — of the race of L’Echelle. Would I keep 
this secret, think you, if it concerned any but your mother? 
I may be a poor man, madame — despised by many, yourself 
among the number — but I have, notwithstanding, a con- 
science, and the L’Echelles were my masters long before you 
were born. ” 

Do any of them still live?” asked Ida, listlessly. 

Alas! no — except we talk of your mother.” 

“ Giuseppe,” said Ida, turning her heavy eyes, surrounded 
by dark rings, which denoted the mental distress she had gone 
through during the last few days, toward him, and speaking 
with sudden imperative emphasis, “ who is my mother? I will 
know!” 

Giuseppe smiled. 

Well, madame, there is no reason why you should not 
know now. Yesterday I could not have told you who she was; 
now I can tell you who she is. It’s a pretty name, a high- 
bred narne—a name, they tell me, that stands high in the lists 
of fashion, in this gay city of Paris. Ah, I see you are impa- 
tient — and perhaps with reason. Your mother, lady ” — and 
he lowered his voice as Ida bent forward, with pallid cheeks 
and eyes of wild, sickening fear rather than expectation — is 
Madame la Comtesse Avioli.” 

Ida uttered a low, stifled cry. 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAKT. 


147 


Madame Avioli! Impossible!’^ 

‘‘Not ouly possible, madame, but true/’ nonchalantly an- 
swered Giuseppe. “ Ah, you may well look surprised, but 
the L’Echelles have gay hearts and bold ones. A murder 
more or less on their consciences signifies but little; and, my 
faith, the lady holds her head high! She has managed to 
evade me skillfully all these years, but I knew I should find 
her out at last. ” 

“ Madame Avioli is my mother!” slowly repeated Ida, as if 
the full significance of the words had not yet penetrated to 
her brain. 

“ Madame Avioli is your mother, and the murderess of 
Pierre L’Echelle,” said Giuseppe. 

“ And I had learned to love her so!” broke from Ida’s 
parched lips. 

“Is it thus?” questioned the Italian, with foreign senti- 
mentality. “ Truly the instincts of nature are marvelous! 
You could never have dreamed that hers was the life whence 
your own sprung; and yet — ” 

Ida shuddered, and motioned him to desist. 

“ Does she know that — that — ” 

“ That you are her child? No, madame; it is no part of 
my plan that she should have the rapture of folding a recov- 
ered daughter to her heart — a child whom she has long 
mourned as dead!” 

“ She will never do that, in any event,” said Ida, with an 
involuntary tightening of her hands within each other. 

Giuseppe observed her with a smile. 

“ Madame shares my sentiments,” he said, cruelly exultant. 
“ I knew from the first that there was no necessity for enjoin- 
ing upon madame the slightest secrecy.” 

“Giuseppe,” said Ida, angrily, “I despise myself more 
than I can tell for having one thought or sensation in com- 
mon with you! but it is too much for my endurance to be 
taunted with it. Oh, if it had been any one but her. Leave 
me now, Giuseppe; you have remained here long enough — too 
long!” 

“ Madame is ill,” said the Italian, lookmg inquiringly at 
her deathly pale face and drooping eyelids. “ Shall I call ma- 
dame’s maid?” 

“ No, call no one, only leave me. I must be alone!” 

“ And when,” craftily began Giuseppe, “ shall I come for 
the rest of the little sum which madame’ s generosity — ” 

“ I don’t know — I don’t care!” ejaculated Mrs. Delamere, 
in a voice which warned Giuseppe that his interests would be 


148 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


best consulted by abandoning the point for the present. I 
tell you to be gone!’^ 

And Giuseppe departed^ receiving no recognition whatever 
of his courteous words of farewell. 

Left alone. Ida sunk down among the cushions of the low 
divan, burying her face in their silken depths, as if she would 
fain shut out light, life, and vision forever. A murderess’s 
child! and that murderess Mme. Avioli, around whom the 
tendrils of her heart had already so fondly woven themselves. 
Ida could hardly comprehend the full meaning of this last 
stunning blow, which had so suddenly and cruelly descended 
upon her. She felt all the instincts of the wounded deer, 
which fain would shrink away from its kind and die, repelling 
alike aid or sympathy. She would have given worlds to be 
able to hide in some lonely wilderness, some desert island, 
where the taunts and mockings of the world could never reach 
her more. All her life long she had been, however, uncon- 
sciously an impostor. Would Mr. Gresham have admitted 
her into the peaceful precincts of his little family circle if he 
had known that her mother was a murderess? Would her 
husband have linked, with the time-honored patronymic of 
the aristocratic family of Delamere, the name of— a mur- 
deress’s child? She looked shudderingly at her hands, as if 
she half expected to see upon the taper lingers the crimson of 
blood-stains. She felt as if the inherited mark of Cain must 
already be burning on her brow. Then, as if she could no 
longer remain still, she rose hurriedly to her feet, and began 
pacing restlessly up and down the floor, wringing her hands 
and moaning almost inaudibly as she went. 

‘‘I think,” she muttered, that people must have gone 
mad beneath the pressure of just such nameless horrors as 
mine. I should go mad if there were insanity dormant in our 
family; but there is not — there is only — murder! And, after 
all, what is murder but insanity? ^o, I will not think of 
these things — I must not! I must try and decide what will be 
the best for the future — the long, terrible, dreary future 
which, woe is me! I must live through. I am only sixteeen, 
and all the pulses of my life are vitally strong within me. Oh, 
if it were sixty-six!” 

And so strangely interwoven are the awful and the trivial in 
our lives that Ida paused, even in this hour of her horror, and 
tried to fancy how she would look at sixty-six, capped, specta- 
cled, and wrinkled, laughing hysterically at the grotesque idea. 

‘‘ But it is such a long, long gulf of years that separates me 
from the friendly silence of the grave. Keginald must take 


IDA OHALONEE^S HEAET. 


149 


me away from Paris, beautiful Paris, where I have been so 
happy, so thoughtless, for I can never have a peaceful moment 
here again. And, besides, it is here that she lives — my moth- 
er! Oh!’’ thought Ida, with a new gush of bitterness into 
the cup df her anguished heart, I have dreamed of her, my 
mother, so often; I have prayed, as a little child, to wake up 
some day and find my mother sitting at my bedside; and 1 
have envied Angie and Eleanor the blessedness of a mother’s 
love until my heart has been like fire within me. But oh! I 
never thought of finding a mother thus! Father in heaven! 
my rash prayer is granted — let Thy mercy avert its evil conse- 
quences!” 

Then came a soft knocking at the door. She heeded it not. 
She had no ear, no sense for aught disconnected with this over- 
whelming anguish of her life. It was repeated somewhat 
more loudly, and she stopped abruptly in her restless wander- 
ings up and down the room, throwing back her tangled curls 
with a movement of sharp impatience. 

“ What is wanting? Who is there?” 

Mathilde’s voice answered softly : 

It is I, madarne;” and, opening the door gently, she an- 
nounced, Madame la Comtesse Avioli!” 


CHAPTEE XXII. 

MADAME AVIOLI INTEECEDES. 

Motionless and pale, Ida DeJamere stood in the middle of 
the room, her silken draperies disheveled, her liair all entan- 
gled, and her small white hands clasped so tightly in each 
other that the blood seemed to settle, in small crimson dots, 
under each nail, as Mme. Avioli entered her boudoir, richly 
dressed, and lovely as a picture. 

‘‘ Ida, my darling,” ejaculated Mme. Avioli, in a voice of 
concern and grief, “ you are ill — what can be the matter?” 

“ I arn not ill,” answered Ida, hoarsely, as she retreated 
from her visitor, still eying her as if she had been some appari- 
tion risen to confront her in ghastly horror. 

‘‘ Then what ails you, Ida? Don’t look at me so strangely!” 

Mme. Avioli followed her, as she continued to shrink back, 
and would have taken her hand in hers, if Ida had not snatched 
it away with a low cry. 

“ Don’t touch me!” she cried. There is blood on your 
hands!” 

“Blood!” Mme. Avioli had grown as pale as Ida’s self 
now, as she glanced down at her slender little pink-gloved 


150 IDA chaloner’s heart. 

hands. ‘‘ Child, what do you mean? There is no blood 
there 

I am not your child Ida ejaculated, passionately, her 
ear caught by the obnoxious words. I will not be your 
child!’^ 

Ida, what can this mean?^^ 

Mine. Avioli looked at Ida with such manifest horror and 
astonishment that it recalled her somewhat to her senses. The 
momentary madness passed away! She remembered the neces- 
sity for dissimulation in some degree, at least in the eyes of 
the world, the absolute need that that woman above all should 
not discover that she, her own unrecognized child, held the 
secret of her awful crime! 

I donT know,^^ she gasped, sinking down in a low chair. 

I think I am a little unwell. Don^t touch me, please — I — 
I would rather be left to myself. 

But, Ida, your hand is hot, your face is flushed. 

For although she had been so pale a moment or two ago, 
her cheeks were like scarlet now. 

What can I do for you?^^ 

“ A glass of water, please; Mathilde will bring it to me!^'’ 

A draught of iced, sparkling water seemed to revive Ida 
somewhat. She set down the goblet, and looked inquiringly 
at Mme. Avioli. 

“ May I inquire what induced you to favor me with the 
honor of a visit to-day?’^ she asked. 

“ I wanted to talk to you, Ida! I had much to say to you!^^ 

What was it?’^ demanded Ida, looking full at her visitor, 
with dilated eyes and a cheek that was again paling. 

‘‘Perhaps I had better not speak of it to-day,^’ hesitated 
Mme. Avioli. “ You are ill!^^ 

“ I am not ill,^^ Ida mechanically replied. “ I am as well 
as I ever shall be again. Say what you have to say, quickly. 

Mme. Avioli hardly knew what to make of the hard, defiant 
mood, one so unlike Ida’s usual loving, confiding self. 

“ Come and sit by me, then, caraF^ 

“ Thank you,” coldly responded Ida. “ I am very com- 
fortable here.” 

“ Then I may draw my chair up to yours?” 

“ If you please.” 

But Mme. Avioli saw with surprise that Ida shuddered and 
recoiled as she laid her hand upon the cold little palm which 
lay in the young wife’s lap. 

“ Ida, you are unhappy,” she began softly. 


IDA CHALOI^^EE^S HEART. 


151 


Yes, you have spoken truly. I am unhappy. So un- 
happy, that death would be a blessed relief from my misery!^' 

(Surely thus much she might speak to prevent her overbur- 
> red heart from breaking, she thought.) 

“ Your husband, too, is unhappy, ida!^^ 

I suppose he is. I do not think it at all strange that he 
should be!’^ she answered, recklessly. 

“ But this is not as it should be, Ida,^^ pleaded Mme. Avioli, 
wistfully. 

‘‘ Is anything as it should be in this world?^^ was the reply, 
spoken almost fiercely. 

“ Ida, I am older than you. I have lived longer in the 
world than you, and my experience must be of some value 

‘‘ Yes,'’^ quivered mockingly on Ida^s lips, your experience 
must have been strange and varied. You have led an eventful 
existence, Madame Avioli. 

‘‘ I have, indeed, Ida — more eventful than you have any 
idea of!''' 

‘‘ How do you know how unlimited my ideas may be?'^ 

Mme. Avioli looked puzzled. 

I don't understand you, Ida.'" 

That is not strange!" 

But," she went on, ‘‘I have seen with pain that gradual 
estrangement that has grown up between you and your hus- 
band. Why is it, Ida? What has fostered it?" 

As Ida sat looking at Mme. Avioli with fevered cheeks and 
glittering eyes, she had it in her heart to cry out, reckless of 
consequences: 

" It is your fault! You have been the cause of itf It has 
grown out of your humble enemies. The Scripture prophecy 
is fulfilled in spirit and in letter, and the sins of the parents 
have inevitably been visited upon their children!" 

And then a cold thrill passed through her veins as she 
thought of the empty mockery of justice, the hollow falsehood 
of the law, where a woman who had broken through every 
restraint, and was amenable to the worst punishment mortal 
codes could inflict, was sitting there smiling and complacent, 
dressed in costly silks and lustrous velvets, without restraints 
either external or from her own conscience. Was she not 
a walking lie — a whited sepulcher? 

As these things passed disjointedly through Ida's mind, 
Mme. Avioli was surprised at the expression of aversion in her 
eyes. 

“ Ida," she said, ‘‘ you are so strange to-day I can not com- 
prehend your moods." 


152 


IDA CHALONER's heart. 


Was this all you were intending to say to me?^^ 

‘‘No, dearest; I had much else to tell you, hut you have 
not yet answered my question about this unhappy feeling be- 
tween yourself and your husband. 

“ Let him ask me himself if he wishes any further explana- 
tion upon the subject/^ Ida answered. 

“ He has asked you, Ida.'’^ 

“ How do you know?^^ demanded Ida. 

“ He told me so himself.'’^ 

“ He has taken you into his confidence, then?^^ asked the 
wife, with a curling lip. 

“ To a certain degree — yes."’"’ 

“ He shows great taste and discrimination in the selection 
of his confidantes.'’^ 

“ What do you mean, Ida?’^ 

“ Tell me, Madame Avioli,^^ demanded Mrs. Delamere, with 
her eyes fixed unblenchingly on the soft, blue orbs of the 
countess, “ if my husband were acquainted with all the pre- 
vious history of your life, would he have been as ready as he is 
now to entreat your all-powerful intercession in his domestic 
troubles?’^ 

“ Certainly, why should he not?^^ • 

Mme. Avioli returned Ida^s gaze without shrinking, and 
spoke in the calm, untroubled tones of candor and veracity. 
Truly, she was an adept in the art of hypocrisy. 

“You speak of my previous life, Ida,^’ resumed Mme. 
Avioli, as Ida made no response to her words. “ Some day I 
should like to tell you about it; it has not been without some 
romance.'’^ 

“ I do not care to hear it.^^ 

“ But, Ida,’^ continued the countess, wounded more deeply 
than she cared to have appear visible, you have asked me 
more than once to tell you the story of my life — now, when I 
volunteer it to you, you have no curiosity.'’^ 

“ Circumstances have changed since then,^'’ was the cold 
answer. 

“ Ida, have you withdrawn your heart from me entirely 

“Yes, countess — entirely.'’^ 

“ And for what reason?’’ 

“ I bound to give an account of my thoughts and in- 
cliiioiuions to you, Madame Avioli?” 

‘ ‘ In j usti ce — yes. ’ ’ 

“Justice!” ejaculated Ida, scornfully. “What is justice 
but a sounding combination of syllables? You and I, Ma- 


IDA CHALOKEE^S HEAET. 153 

dame Avioli, have good cause to rejoice that it is nothing 
more!’^ 

“ Ida!^^ said Madame Avioli, growing more and more be- 
wildered, ‘‘ I insist upon knowing what you mean!^^ 

“ And you shall not know,’^ said Ida, rising to her feet with 
the royal air of a queen dismissing her audience. ‘‘ I repel 
your confidence, Madame Avioli, and I will not submit to any 
interference, at your hands, between my husband^s and my 
own affairs. 1 regard it as officious as it is uncalled for, and, 
from you, coming with the worst grace in the world! And 
now, if you have no further communications to make,^^ with 
a haughty inclination of the head, I must beg to be left 
alone. 

“ Ida!^^ 

Have I not spoken with sufficient plainness?^^ 

Mine. Avioli rose, pale, indignant, and deeply hurt. 

Ida,^^ she said, “ I can not understand all this, but after 
the words you have just uttered, it is impossible that I should 
remain longer. Adieu 1^^ 

She proffered her hand, but Ida never lifted her own to 
meet it. 

“ Adieu, Madame Avioli!^^ 

Forever, Ida?"^ 

It was the last cry of the loving heart, loath to be separated 
from what had grown so dear to it. 

Yes, forever!’^ 

The countess turned away, and went slowly out of the room, 
her head drooping, her eyes humid with the tears she would 
not allow to fall; she had been scorned, repulsed, insulted — 
yet, through it all she could not learn to hate the beautiful 
young creature who had grown so precious to her. 

“ It^s some strange misunderstanding,^^ she thought; it 
will soon be cleared up, some day, and Ida will laugh at her 
own folly. But what can it be that has thus turned my dove 
into a savage eaglet — my lamb to a lioness? Is it possible — 
no, it can not be — that she is — jealous of me?^^ 

Mme. Avioli stood an instant in the vestibule, pondering the 
new conjecture in her mind; but the next moment she dis- 
missed it as utterly groundless and absurd. Keginald Dela- 
mere was not the kind of husband for a woman to feel jealous 
about, and even if he were, Mme. Avioli felt that she was the 
last one to rouse the resentful anger of a too-exacting wife! 

On the stairway, just beyond the vestibule door, she met 
Mr. Delame re himself. His face lighted up as he recognized 
Mme. Avioli. 


154 


IDA CHALONEH^S HEART. 


“You have seen her, then?^^ he cried, pausing and taking 
the countess’s hand in his own. 

“ Yes, Mr. Delamere, I have seen her!’^ 

“ And what does she say?” 

But to Reginald’s in finite consternation, instead of answer- 
ing, Mme. Avioli burst into tears. 

“ Countess I why, what is the matter?” 

“ She will not listen to me, Mr. Delamere,” faltered Mme. 
Avioli; “ she rejects my intercession, and drives me away 
from her with insults all the more cutting that they are quite 
incomprehensible to me. ” 

Mr. Delamere was silent an instant, but his brows were con- 
tracted, and his eyes full of angry luster. 

“But you will not abandon my cause, then, Madame 
Avioli?” 

“ What more can I do, Mr. Delamere?” 

“ She must receive you! she shall!” he ejaculated. 

“ Mr. Delamere, do not proceed rashly, or you may imperil 
the happiness of your whole future. Remember, she is young — 
she must he dealt gently with. Wait until this defiant mood 
has passed away.” 

“ But, at all events,” pleaded Reginald, “ you will soon 
come again?” 

“ I can not, Mr. Delamere, until she herself sends for me. 
Remember, however, that you shall always have my prayers 
and best wishes.” 

And Mme. Avioli ’s eyes were full of tears as she pressed 
his hand, and parted from him. 

Reginald went on through the anteroom into the pretty 
apartment where his young wife was still sitting, staring 
fixedly at the intertwining roses and violets, whose colors dj^ed 
the deep pile of the carpet. 

She looked up as he entered, but spoke not a word of greet- 
ing. 

“Ida,” he said, the deep tones of his voice betokening a 
tumult of smothered anger, “ what does this mean?” 

“ What, Reginald?” 

“ I have just met your former most intimate friend, Ma- 
dame Avioli, on the stairs.” 

“ She has gone, then?’^ 

“ Yes, she has gone, and you have driven her away.-” 

“ Have 1?” 

“ She says you have insulted her — that she can never again 
cross your threshold until you yourself recall her.” 

“ Then,” interrupted Ida, “ she will never cross it!” 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAET. 155 

I insist upon it, Ida, that you write a note of apology to 
this lady,^^ said Reginald. 

I will not/^ Ida replied, firmly. 

Ida, what has she done?^^ he demanded. 

What has she done?^^ A shudder convulsed the wife^s 
slender form, but she was silent. 

You know very well that you ought to be honored by her 
notice — fiattered by her genuine interest in your affairs, went 
on Reginald, vehemently. 

“ 1 feel highly gratified by your high estimate of me!^^ re- 
joined Ida, coldl 3 ^ . ' 

‘‘ How has she offended you?^^ 

‘‘ She has not offended me, but I choose to break off our 
friendship. 

And 1 choose that you shall not. Ida, are you mad?^’ 

Not yet, Reginald; but I do not know how soon 1 may be 
if this sort of thing goes on much longer 

Her voice, more piteous far than tears, appealed to him with 
strange electric power. He had vowed at the holy altar to 
love and cherish her, yet here she was, pale, wretched, and, 
as it were, seeming to isolate herself from the consoling infiu- 
ence of aught in the shape of human sympathy. 

Inexpressibly softened, he sat down beside her, and would 
have drawn her to his side. 

Ida! my poor little darling he said, in broken accents, 
my wounded dove, come back to my heart, and let us forget 
all these jarring discords 

But she shuddered, and shrunk away from the gentle touch 
of his hand, as if it were painful to her. 

Don% Rex, don’t!'^ she murmured, faintly. “You 
would not, if you knew — 

“ If I knew how entirely your sentiments and feelings to- 
ward me had changed, Ida,'’^ he assented, drawing back, with 
an icy coldness succeeding to the softer mood that had for a 
moment come over his nature. “ Perhaps you are right. 1 
thank you for reminding me of it.^^ 

And without another word he left the room, leaving Ida to 
the gnawing agony of her own sad thoughts. 

He had misconstrued her again. He was hurt — wounded — 
and justly so. Well, what of it? Life was a series of mis- 
takes, it seemed, and strive as she would, it seemed to be her 
destiny to be misunderstood and shrunk from. Was there 
any use in endeavoring to disentangle this dark and mystic 
web whose meshes were tightening round her on every side? 
She sat there quite silent and motionless, her head lying 


156 


IDA CHALOIIER^S HEART. 


against the side of the sofa, and her hands folded wearily, 
until Mathilde came into the room to remind her that it was 
time to dress for an evening reception in one of the most fash- 
ionable faubourgs of Paris. 

‘‘Yes, Mathilde/-’ she answered, rising languidly, “ I sup- 
pose the world must roll on, though we are crushed beneath 
its chariot wheels.'’^ 

“ Madame?^^ said Mathilde, with wide-open eyes. 

“ Nothing. I am ready to dress. 

Mathilde surveyed her mistresses colorless cheeks with an 
expression of discontent and a doubtful shake of the head. 

“ Madame will allow me to put the little soup^on of rouge 
on her cheeks to-night?ee she coaxed, as Mrs. Delamere en- 
tered her dressing-room, where clusters of wax-candles burned 
brightly on either side of the Psyche glass that filled the space 
between the two windows. “ Madame is so pale!’^ 

“No,” said Ida, stamping her foot with sudden decision. 
“ I am false enough already; I will not add to the deception 
by an acted lie!” 


OHAPTEE XXIIl. 

IDA^S PROPOSITION. 

Apparently Mrs. Delamere had never been in better health 
or spirits than she was at the reception that night. Mathilde 
would have thought there was no need for rouge, if she could 
have seen her young mistresses brilliant cheeks and soft anima- 
tion of manner as she stood chatting beneath the grand cen- 
tral chandelier in the crowd of admirers. Keginald marveled 
as he looked at her and remembered her manner of scarcely 
an hour ago. Did she really possess the art of forgetting her- 
self so utterly? or was it that she was a hypocrite in no com- 
mon degree? Eeginald could not answer himself this ques- 
tion. He made no allowance for the theory of extremes. 

She stood leaning against a flower- wreathed column, watch- 
ing his young wife as one might watch the unfolding of an in- 
scrutable mystery. Nor could he but be proud of her grace 
and beauty. Yet at the moment he felt that he would have 
given it all for a face less lovely and a heart that was all his 
own. Yes, she kept her smiles and dimples and soft, attract- 
ive ways for society alone. She had a pride and pleasure in 
attracting the admiration of strangers, while her husband was 
kept afar off, and only tolerated as the necessary appendage of 
a lad/ in Paris society. So young, too — so much of a child! 

Eeginald could have groaned aloud as he stood there, with 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


157 


the scent of hot-house flowers palling upon his senses, and the 
delicious murmurs of music keeping time to the gay feet of 
innumerable dancers. 

“ Monsieur Delamere will not dance smilingly questioned 
his hostess, laying a white satin fan, sparkling with spangles, 
on his arm. 

‘‘Not to-night, madame.^^ 

“ Monsieur Delamere is not well?’^ Ste looked inquiringly 
at his pale face. 

“ As well as usual, madame — a little wearied, perhaps. 
Night after night of gayety is naturally exhausting to one 
who was not born in Paris. 

The lady laughed softly, and passed on to another group of 
her guests. And Keginald, glancing at a tiny clock, half hid- 
den in ferns and mignonette on a gilded bracket, crossed the 
room to Ida^s side. 

“ Are you ready to go home, Ida?^^ 

She was talking to a tall, sleepy-looking young Englishman, 
whose dreamy eyes seemed absolutely fascinated by the Spanish 
glow and sparkle of her dark beauty. 

“By Jove!^^ Sir Edmund Braine said to himself, “the 
prettiest thing IVe seen in Paris yet. , I was beginning to 
fancy it a deuced bore, but I think Pll not cut it just yet!’^ 

“ Keady to go home, Keginald! Why, it is but a few min- 
utes after one!^^ she exclaimed. 

There was an expression of the keenest annoyance in her 
face. She had, for the instant, forgotten herself, and he was 
recalling her to the dreary, desolate real. 

“ I am tired, Ida. All this hollow gayety is inexpressibly 
sickening to me!^^ he said, in a low tone. 

“You are turning misanthrope, are you?’^ she asked, bit- 
terly. “ But I have promised Sir Edmund the next quadrille. 
If you will wait for that — 

“ Very well. 

Mr. Delamere sat down where a partially open window let 
in the cool, fresh air and the starlight, and waited until the 
quadrille wr.s over, and Sir Edmund Braine led his flushed, 
smiling partner back to her seat. 

“ That was a delightful quadrille. Sir Edmund she said, 

gayly. , 

“ Is it possible that you can enjoy the society of such a cox- 
comb as that?^’ demanded her husband, as Sir Edmund turned 
away, and Ida took his proffered arm. 

The whole expression of her face changed as he spoke; a 


158 IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 

scornful curve of the lips usurped the place of the bright, ani- 
mated smile. 

Am I to enjoy nothing?^^ she asked, haughtily. “ In 
that case, you had better lock me up, or immure me in a con- 
vent, as some of these jealous Parisians do their wives, I am 
told.^^ 

I am not jealous, Ida,^^ he said, stung to the quick by the 
accusation. 

Heaven knows, she continued, as she passed down the 
broad stairway, her hand still resting on his arm, ‘‘ that I have 
little enough happiness left without turning, of deliberate pur- 
pose, from the chance pleasures that happen to lie in my path- 
way. 

‘‘ Are you so very unhappy, Ida?^’ 

“ I am miserable,^’ she responded, vehemently. 

Nothing more was said until they were seated in the close 
carriage, rolling rapidly homeward. Once, glancing from the 
window opposite, the glare of light which streamed from some 
brilliantly illuminated building, she saw, as a carriage flashed 
swiftly by her, a face, half hidden in the hood of a white cash- 
mere burnoose, but still sufficiently revealed to disclose the ex- 
quisite features, and the glitter of costly jewels on throat and 
bosom. It was Mme. Avioli^s face, and Ida shrunk back into 
the shadow as she saw it. How could she mingle, night after 
night, with the gay throng of fashion? How could she smile 
and look happy, with that dark stain forever resting on her 
soul? 

Ida,^^ said her husband, as these disconnected thoughts 
fluttered through her mind, “ was that Madame Avioli?^^ 

“ Yes.^’ 

She has been to the Eussian minister’s, I suppose.” 

Ida did not answer. 

“ Are you still determined to reject her offered friendship?” 

Yes.” 

And you will not tell me why?” 

“ No; I will not tell you why.” 

‘‘Ida,” said her husband, gloomily, “1 sometimes think 
you are determined to estrange me from you.” • 

She was silent; pulling restlessly at the withered leaves of 
her ball bouquet. 

“ You are full of mysteries and concealments; you repel 
my sympathy, and by your strange conduct drive from you 
those whose friendship is most precious. At times, Ida, I 
think it is my duty to insist upon an explanation of this sys- 
tematically strange conduct of yours,” 


IDA CHALOKEE^S HEAET. 159 

“ It would be useless to insist/^ she answered, slowly and 
distinctly. “ 1 would die sooner than tell you.'’^ 

‘‘ Ida/^ he said, annoyed and indignant beyond measure, 
“ you tempt me to speak the words that have more than once 
risen to my lips of late.-^^ 

Speak them, then — it matters little whether you speak or 
remain silent 

Then, Ida, I will say them. I wish I had never beheld 
you!’^ 

The words, often repressed, yet continually haunting his 
mind, had found expression at last. And the moment they 
passed his li^is he felt sorry they had been uttered. She made 
no reply, but sat silently looking out of the carriage window, 
the gleam of a passing lamp now and then irradiating her 
pale face, with its wreath of roses, and shining ornaments of 
soft, lustrous pearl, as beautiful as a statue, and as cold. 

“ She does not care for what I have said,'’^ rose indignantly 
to Eeginald Delamere^s mind, but he was mistaken in this 
surmise. Ida did care, and the bitterest resentment which had 
ever filled her heart was rankling there, at the cruel words 
which were to her but a confirmation of the vague doubts that 
had tormented her many a time before! 

The lights in the pleasant drawing-room were burning 
cheerfully as the husband and wife entered it; the fire glowed 
on the marble hearth, and Ida^s little King Charles spaniel 
sprung from the warm hearth-rug to greet them. 

“ Shall I take madarne’s things?^^ said Mathilde, who had 
been dozing over the fire. 

Ida gave her the hood and wrappings which she had worn, 
and as she disappeared into the inner room, sat down in front 
of the fire, the pearls glimmering in her ears, and her arms 
shining ivory-white through the folds of her white lace shawl. 

Eeginald,^'’ she said, for her husband was turning away, 

do not go yet. I want to speak to you.^^ 

What is it?^^ 

He came back and stood leaning against the mantel, with 
folded arms and stern, grave eyes fixed steadfastly upon her 
face, but there was nothing in his look to melt or soften the 
strangely desperate mood which had risen up in the heart of 
the young wife. 

‘‘ Eeginald, she said, ‘‘it seems that we have ceased to 
love each other; that where we would question, and sympa- 
thize, we only irritate and annoy. 

Mr. Helamere was silent. His heart seemed to turn chill 
and cold within him, and a choking sensation came into his 


160 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


throat. His worst fears were being realized; her own lips were 
telling him that she loved him no longer! Yet, still he stood 
there, as men have often stood, enduring in silence the agonies 
of an inquisition worse than death. 

“ Go on,^^ he said, huskily, as she ceased speaking. 

It would be a mere mockery for us to live together longer, 
feeling as we do,"'’ she went on, slowly. “ Eeginald, I have 
been thinking this thing over for some time."" 

(For some time! This, then, was the key to the enigma 
that had so puzzled him of late — the altered manners, the 
(^hanged looks.) 

“ And,"" went on Ida, looking fixedly into the fire, I have 
come to the conclusion that perhaps it would be better for us 
to part!"" 

“ To part?"" he echoed, hoarsely. 

Yes; to seek, as others have done, whom we hear of every 
day, the merciful aid of the law!"" 

‘‘ Do you mean that you wish for a divorce?"" 

‘‘ I mean to ask you whether you do. not consider it better 
for us to separate before we make each other more hopelessly 
miserable. I suppose a divorce could be easily obtained on 
the ground of incompatibility of disposition."" 

He did not reply; and, standing as he did in the shadow of 
the marble angle of the mantel, she could not see the deathly 
pallor of his face — the look of mental agony which was con- 
vulsing every feature. 

“We were both children, Reginald,"" she pursued, “ when 
we were married — indeed, I suppose we are hardly more than 
that now, but we have drunk the bitter cup of experience to 
the dregs. We did not know our own minds; we construed 
passing fancy into love, and entered into the gravest of earth- 
ly compacts without any deeper consideration than if it had 
been a summer-day"s holida}", to be enjoyed together. I do 
not blame you any more than I blame myself; but, oh, 
Reginald, we have made a terrible mistake!"" 

“ We have, indeed!"" he answered, in a low, deep voice. 

“ It is getting late,"’ said Ida, as the clock struck three and 
she rose, gathering her loose draperies around her. “ But I 
could not have rested without telling you what is on my mind. 
Will you take it into consideration, Reginald?” 

“ I will think of what you have said, Ida,"" he replied. 

She went into the dressing-room, beyond, where Mathilde 
was waiting for her — and the door closed. 

To Reginald Delamere it sounded like the clang of a sepul- 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 161 

clier floor which shuts one out forever from light and life and 
all God^s blessed sunshine. 

For to him Ida was already as much dead as if he had seen 
her in her coffin, with burial-flowers scattered on her breast. 
Advancing a pace or two, he knelt on the floor in front of the 
velvet sofa she had occupied, and pressed his lips passionately 
to the arm of the couch upon which her arm had rested. A 
single crushed red* rose lay upon the floor, where it had fallen 
from her bosom. He lifted it, and, kissing it as a holy relic 
is kissed by the most faithful of pilgrims, placed it tenderly in 
his breast. 

Good-bye,^ ^ he murmured, softly, ‘^good-bye to the 
laughing lovely child I married but yesterday; good-b3^e to the 
beautiful wife whose smile made my hearths sunshine. I have 
looked my last upon them forever!’^ 

With these words on his lips he went into his own dressing- 
room, separated from Ida^s by their mutual sleeping apart- 
ment, and, bolting the door, sat down to his desk. 

A fire was burning there, and Achille’s care had supplied 
the room with a pair of wax-candles, in huge, cumbrous stands 
of glass, hung with glittering prisms. 

Eeginald stirred the embers into a brighter blaze, and sat 
down in front of their red shine to think. 

To think! But it was in vain. He could not collect his 
wandering thoughts, nor sj^stematize the vague visions that 
thronged through his brain. There was but one all-absorbing 
idea that filled his heart and mind alike — Ida did not love 
him! Her own lips had told him so. Ida^s affection was 
estranged from him. There was no loop-hole or possibility of 
doubt left now to cling to. She herself had asked him for a 
divorce, as coolly as if hearts could be bartered and exchanged 
at will. 

No, never! a thousand times, never! He would throw him- 
self into the dark tides of the muddy river Seine before he 
would allow their names — his name and Ida^s — to be dragged 
through the mire of a divorce court! She should have known 
him better than that. He shuddered involuntarily as he re- 
membered the latest morceati of scandal which had rung 
through and through the salons and promenades of Paris — the 
divorce suit instituted by M. Gerard du Plessis against Mary, 
his wife. Were people to pity him as they had pitied this un- 
fortunate husband? Should Ida’s sacred name be mentioned 
with sneers, as Mme. du Plessis’s had been? No; whatever 
fate might be awaiting them, that rock of peril should be 
avoided. 


6 


162 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


He sat there mute and motionless, until the gray glimmers 
of dawn, shining through the green satin curtains, revealed 
his face, wild and haggard as that of a dead man. At length 
he sat down to his desk and began to write. 

It was broad daylight when at last he folded and sealed the 
letter he had been engaged in inditing, and addressed it in 
legible handwriting, leaving it on his desk, where any passing 
glance could easily discover it. 

Then he went out of the room and down the stairs, letting 
himself out with his latch-key into the bright morning glow of 
the Paris streets. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 
gone! 

The glancing sunbeams were weaving themselves among 
the gilt arabesques of the huge antique canopy which sup- 
ported the curtains of Mrs. Delamere's bed, when Mathilde 
parted them and roused the sleeper with her smooth voice. 

“ Madame, it is past ten. Will madame please to rise?^^ 

Ida raised herself on her elbow, looking like a pure little 
pearl amid the web-like laces and embroideries of her night- 
dress. She had been dreaming of the old rectory at Deep- 
dale, gathering buttercups on the sunny hills with Angie, and 
sitting in the moonlight with her head on Eleanor^s lap; and 
it was not altogether a pleasant revulsion to come back to 
Paris, and the huge canopied bedstead, and Mathilde^s high- 
pitched foreign voice. 

Oh, Mathilde! what made you wake me up so soon?^’ she 
asked, petulantly. “ I was in the midst of — oh, such a de- 
licious dream !^^ 

Mathilde clasped her hands, and professed herself an 
desespoir. 

But it was getting late, and madame always likes to have 
her chocolate before the morning mail conies in.^^ 

“ Well,^^ sighed Ida, “ I suppose I may as well get up now 
as ever.^^ 

“ Madame is tired?^^ 

‘‘Madame is not at all tired, said Ida, sharply. “Give 
me my slippers, Mathilde, and don^t trouble yourself by im- 
agining things that are not so.'’'^ 

“ Madame will wear her gold-colored silk wrapper, with the 
Turkish slippers?^^ 

“ Yes, anything you please, only be quick about it, 
Mathilde. 


IDA CHALOOTR'S heart. 


163 


The clock was pointing to eleven, when at length Mrs. 
Delamere entered the drawing-room where she generally pre- 
ferred to take her morning chocolate. It was bright and sun- 
shiny and full of flowers, as usual; but Keginald^s chair, with 
the morning paper hanging over its arm, was vacant. 

“ Mr. Delamere has not risen yet?^^ she asked, carelessly, 
as she sat down to the cup of foaming chocolate which awaited 
her. 

I have not seen Achille this morning, madame. Shall I 
ring and inquire 

There was no use, Ida thought, in precipitating an inter- 
view, which must necessarily be disagreeable to both wife and 
husband. Eeginald would make his appearance when he was 
re'ady; until then she was very happy with the sunshine, and 
the chocolate, and little Bijou, the long-eared King Charles 
spaniel. 

For she was still sufficient of a child to enjoy the present, 
even though the dark coming shadows of the future already 
marred its brightness. 

In a few minutes, however, Achille entered, with a counte- 
nance of sore bewilderment. 

‘‘ Madame can, perhaps, tell me where monsieur has gone 
this morning?'’ 

Is he gone out?’’ carelessly questioned Ida, throwing aside 
the jet-black curls which had fallen over her forehead, as she 
sat on the hearth-rug, teasing Bijou with the tassel of her 
wrapper. 

‘‘ He is not in his room, madame; it may be possible that 
he has gone for a walk, l3ut that is not monsieur’s usual 
habit.” 

‘‘ I dare say he will be back presently,” said Ida. Prenez 
garden Bijou ! vous etes mi petit vilain ! Take him away, 
Mathilde, he is gnawing my poor tassels all in pieces.” 

As Mathilde carried out the little dog, Achille, who had 
gone back to his master’s room, returned with a grave face. 

‘‘ A letter, madame!” 

“ A letter!” cried Ida, springing up with alacrity. Has 
the morning mail come in, then?” 

‘‘ Ko, madame,” said Achille, ‘‘ it is a letter which I found 
lying on monsieur’s desk directed to madame.” 

Ida broke the seal in some surprise. What could Eeginald 
mean by writing a letter to her, when personal communica- 
tion was so much easier? 

It commenced; 


164 


IDA CHALONER's heart. 


“ My darling Wife, — At least you will let me call you 
so for the last time. You are my darling wife and you will be 
forever, even though 1 may never look upon your face again. 
Ida, it would be useless now to tell you how dearly I love you 
■ — how precious you have been to me, even when you most re- 
pelled the affection I fain would have lavished upon you. I 
have neither time nor heart for the reproaches I might heap 
upon you; but one thing I would have you always remember: 
I loved you through everything, I love you to the last, though 
I could not but observe with the keenest anguish, that you 
were gradually drifting wider and wider apart from my heart. 
I seek not to know why; 1 am willing to believe that it was 
because you were too young at the time of your marriage to 
understand the state of your own feelings. I am willing to 
accept my own ruin as the consequence of my own rashness. 
The fact itself can not be disguised — you have ceased to care 
for 'me as a wife should care for her husband. 

Ida, there is but one way out of this labyrinth of sorrow 
and perplexity. What you spoke to me of last night I could 
not for a moment tolerate. The name of Delamere is too old 
and honorable to be spoken lightly. My wife is too dear to 
me to be placed in the position it would necessarily involve 
for her. But I am willing to indulge you in what you wish. 
You shall have a divorce— all but the name. I leave Paris 
this morning forever. Whither to go I have not yet decided. 
It can but be a matter of indifference to you, in any event, as 
long as you never look upon my face again. On my way 
through London I shall see my lawyer, and settle finally upon 
you the fortune which will be of no further use to me, except 
the mere sum which will suffice to keep me from absolute 
want. Use the money when and how you please. It is the 
least restitution I can make to you for the evils I have unwill- 
ingly brought upon you. It has never purchased happiness 
for me; perhaps in your possession the curse may be taken off. 

‘‘ I do not ask you, Ida, to think tenderly of me when I 
have passed forever out of the channel of your daily life. I 
only ask that, when you remember me, you will at least give 
me credit for having loved you, truly and deeply. Is it not a 
proof of this, when, with my heart as full of tenderness toward 
you as ever, I can thus give you up, totally and entirely? If 
death had parted us, I think I could have become reconciled 
in time, knowing that you had once loved me; but this has all 
the bitterness of a living death! It is true that I have blighted 
your life, but what has become of my own? 

“ Farewell, Ida, my lost, cherished wife! I shall never cross 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


165 


your pathway again; but my prayers and blessings shall follow 
you with constant influence. Be happy! be your own blithe, 
gladsome self, and try to forget that you were ever married to 

Ida sat, vaguely gazing upon the paper she held in her 
hand, long after she had read it, and comprehended all the 
solemn import of its words. It seemed so imposvsible, so like 
an oflshoot of her own troubled fancy. Yet there were the 
words, plain and convincing, in her husband’s own handwrit- 
ing, signed with his own initials. Her husband! She had no 
husband now! 

‘‘ Madame is ill?” cried Mathilde, catching the little casso- 
lette from the table, and springing forward. But Ida, recover- 
ing herself with a desperate effort, motioned her back again. 

“ A glass of water, Mathilde — that is all I need.” 

And when the girl brought the goblet of iced water, Ida had 
resumed her wonted calmness. 

“ Go now, Mathilde,” she said, with quite self-assertion, 

I am quite well.” 

It was not until Mathilde had reluctantly obeyed, that Ida 
set herself to read the letter slowly over again. 

She had made no mistake. She had misconstrued no line 
or word. Eeginald had gone from her forever. She knew 
him well enough to look for no hesitating indecision, no change 
of purpose. What he had determined, after cool and serious 
thought, that resolve he would carry out until the very end. 
He had left her, and he never would return. That was the 
point to which all the ever-changing currents of her thoughts 
would recur, let them tend which way they might; she need 
fear his watchful eye, his jealous questionings no more. 

Was she glad or sorry? Ida hardly knew. There was an 
aching at her heart when first she comprehended that she 
should never see him again — the boy husband, who had cher- 
ished and indulged her so fondly in the first bright weeks of 
their married life — and yet there was an instinct of relief as 
well. At least he would never fathom the secret of Giuseppe’s 
constant visits — he would never know that he had been mar- 
ried to — the daughter of a murderess! Yes, perhaps, it was 
better so. 

But whither, in this hour of widowhood, for such, to all 
actual intents and purposes it was, should she turn for advice, 
counsel, and friendly suggestions? Had it been twenty-four 
hours earlier, Mme. Avioli would have been the first one to 
occur to her mind — now she trembled and grew pale at the 


166 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


bare idea. Acquaintances she had by the score — glittering, 
sweet-voiced women, whose gloved hands had pressed hers, 
and whose perfumed lips had breathed the softest words of 
flattery — but to not one of them, Ida felt, could she turn in 
this hour of her need. And now, for the first time, she felt 
how hollow this bright, enchanting Paris really was! 

Oh, for Mr. Gresham, with his mild spectacled eyes, and 
his shining threadbare coat — oh, for gentle Eleanor— even for 
Geoffrey MorelamPs straightforwardness and plain common 
sense! Here, she felt she was as a stranger in a strange land, 
and a sensation of sick-hearted loneliness came over her as she 
realized the utter solitude of her strange, anomalous position. 

After all, in what had this rash and unexpected action of 
her husband benefited her? She was not actually a divorced 
wife. Yet, how much better was her situation? 

But,’^ answered worldly Commonsense, “you are rich, 
you have the best and the only weapon for your tournament 
with the world. Nobody will pause to ask whether you are 
wife or widow, as long as the atmosphere of gold surrounds 
you with its rarefied light. Fear not, you will be welcomed 
in every circle, received at every fireside!^’ 

Yet never to see Eeginald again! Ida rose up, unconscious- 
ly, as the idea recurred to her mind. She felt, driven by the 
impulse of the moment, that she must go to him — follow him 
— write to him — at all hazard. But whither should she write? 
whither should she go? No, she was utterly powerless. She 
did not even, in her ignorance of the commonest details of 
business life, know the name of his banker or his legal adviser. 
She must wait until they put themselves in communication 
with her, until such time as this she was quite without ex- 
pedient. 

What a strange, lonely feeling it was! Eobinson Crusoe on 
his desert island must have felt something like this poor little 
deserted wife, cowering among her satin cushions and velvet 
divans, with fiery topaz glancing on neck and arms, and her 
costly draperies gleaming as if they were woven of spun gold. 

“Oh, Eeginald! Eeginald !^^ she faltered, scarce knowing 
what she said, but hailing the faint sound of her own voice as 
a relief, “ come back to me! I am so lonely — so miserable !^^ 

But there was no answering sound, no footstep hastening to 
her side. Eeginald had gone from her forester; no voice nor 
cry of hers could bring him back. It had been her own doing 
after all, why should she repine? It had brought her exemp- 
tion — rest — freedom. 

No, not freedom, as long as Giuseppe Antonardi lived! Ida 


IDA CHALOl^ER^S HEART. 


167 


remembered this with a despairing pang. But at least she 
would not be compelled to wear the mask of deception, to hide 
the wounds that were sapping away the foundations of her 
heart. 

Yes, there was some relief in this. What should she do? 
she asked herself. What steps would it be best that she should 
tahe, now that no further constraint was placed upon her 
movements? Perhaps it would be wise to remain in Paris un- 
til she heard from the lawyers to whom Eeginald had alluded 
in his letter. Achille, Mathilde, and Mme. Anastase were 
surely as good protectors as a little girl of sixteen could re- 
quire. In the same thought came the question what was she 
to say to the servants, these curious all-observing quidnuncs 
whose inquisitiveness was so much more difficult to baffie than 
the well-bred curiosity of the upper circles. 

She rang the bell. Mathilde answered it at once. 

“ Send Achille to me,^^ was her order. 

Achille came, polite and observant. 

What was it that madaine was pleased to want?^^ 

Achille, said Mrs. Delamere, in a matter-of-course sort 
of way, “ your master has gone away for some months. 

‘‘On business, madame?'’^ 

“ Yes, on business. During his absence you are to conduct 
the establishment as usual. 

Achille, who had begun to droop at the mortifying idea that 
his master had gone away without requiring his services, now 
brightened at the responsibility which had devolved on his 
broad Gascon shoulders. 

“ Madame, it will be my pleasure to see that you are in no 
way inconvenienced by monsieur^s absence. Monsieur knew 
in whom to confide, and the faithful Achille laid his hand 
upon his heart, in theatrical fashion. 

“ I dare say you will manage very nicely, Achille, said 
Ida, disregarding his dramatic effects. “ I shall trust entirely 
in your good faith and judgment. You may go now.^^ 

“ There, she thought, leaning back on the sofa, as Achille 
left the room. “It won^t be Achille^s fault if the whole 
qvartier doesrPt know of it in twenty-four hours!^^ 

Presently Mathilde came to her mistress with a card. 

“ If madame pleases.'’^ 

It was a scented piece of joasteboard, on which was engraved 
the name of “ Colonel St. Argyle,^^ in exquisite Old English 
letters. 

“I am not at home,^^ said Ida, coldly. 


“ Pemember, 


168 . IDA CHALOKEE^S HEAET. 

Mathilde, that henceforward 1 am never at home to Colonel 
St. Argyle. 

She tore the card in two and laid it on the fire^ watching the 
blaze with a cold smile. For Ida Delamere felt that for the 
future she could not be too careful in her acquaintances. 


CHAPTEE XXV. 

WE A EING BLACK. 

Ida had not long to wait for the expected communication 
of her husband^s business agents. In something less than a 
week from the time of his departure, a letter arrived from 
Messrs. Bangs, Leary & Co., Leadenhall Street, London, 
stating that, in obedience to arrangements made by Eeginald 
Delamere, Esquire, they held themselves in readiness to cash 
any checks she might see fit to draw upon them, and hoping 
that, by strict attention to her business affairs, they might be 
considered worthy of the continued charge of her fortune. 

It was a polite and well- worded business note, and Ida 
nodded composedly as she put it away in the satin-wood writ- 
ing-desk Eeginald had bought for her when they passed 
through London on their wedding-tour, en route for Paris. 

“ You must never let me find the letters of any other man 
than myself treasured here, Ida,'’^ he had charged her play- 
fully, when he showed her the silk-lined compartment for the 
reception of notes. 

And this cold, brief note from his business men was the first 
that she had ever laid there, save the letter which told her of 
his living death, as far as she was concerned. They had never 
yet been separated, consequently there had been no occasion 
for writing to each other. There would never be any more let- 
ters exchanged between them now. 

Ida locked the desk and attached the key to a tiny ring of 
gold which hung from the end of her watch-chain, thinking 
how little they had either of them thought of so sudden and 
eternal a parting as this, in all those bright days of their 
honey-moon. 

‘‘ But it is better so,^’ she thought; ‘‘it is better so!’^ 

Mathilde entered while her young mistress was still standing 
looking at the toy of satin-wood and gold, with the medallions 
of cameos gemming its top and the glistening chains that 
festooned its sides. 

“ Would madaine please to see Giuseppe Antonardi?’^ 

“ I suppose so,"’"’ said Ida, tightening her under-lip with 
scarcely repressed annoyance. “ Where is he, Mathilde?’^ 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


169 


In madame^s drawing-room.^^ 

“ Very well, I will come to him.'’^ 

Giuseppe was standing with his back to the fire when she 
entered the apartment, his turbid, hazel eyes fixed in a species 
of artistic rapture on a tiny landscape framed in crimson vel- 
vet outlined with flat bars of gold which hung above the sofa 
on the opposite wall.' 

He bowed low as Ida advanced. 

“ Truly,^^ he said, “ madame has taste the most marvelous. 
Cardinal Perimond has no such picture as that in his famous 
collection, which I did myself yesterday the honor to see!^^ 

Without paying any regard to his expression of opinion on 
the fine arts, Ida sat down on a low chair, where she faced 
him directly. 

“ Well, Giuseppe, what is it now?^’ 

Giuseppe looked hard at her. He was a quick observer of 
the minutest changes in voice or manner, and something in 
Ida^s tone told him that he did not stand on the same level as 
regarded her that he had all along occupied. Somehow she 
had gained an advantage, and he had lost it. Giuseppe mar- 
veled within himself as to what it could be.'’^ 

“ Madame asks in jest,’"’ he said, with profound humility; 
“ madame knows my poverty, my humble reliance on her 
noble generosity. 

“Your poverty!’^ repeated laa, meaningly. “Giuseppe, 
how long is it since I gave you five hundred pounds?^^ 

“Ho we measure time by hours and days, madame? or by 
reverses and accidents the most deplorable? Alas, I have 
lived a life-time of them since last I saw madame. 

“ Giuseppe, you are squandering away my money at the 
gaming-table!^^ said Ida, slowly fixing his guilt}", wandering 
eyes with her own steady gaze. 

He did not attempt to deny the charge. 

“ Madame, play is an art — I study it — I worship it — I lose 
by it, and am content. Fortune will one day recompense her 
votary. There is no such thing as chance — it is a theory of 
sequences which can not prove incorrect. But, to succeed, 
one must have patience. 

“ And money, too, 1 should infer,"’ said Ida, dryly. 

“ Madame has said it!” meekly assented Giuseppe. 

“ But, Giuseppe, I do not exactly see how all this is to end. 
Am I to remain forever the victim of your rapacity?” 

Giuseppe seemed to wave back the obnoxious word with a 
motion of his white ringed hand. 


170 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Madame misrepresents me. I am not rapacious; it is but 
little of madame*s abundance that I ask. 

“ Little echoed Ida, bitterly. “ Do you know how much 
money, first and last, you have extorted from me?^^ 

Giuseppe elevated his eyebrows. 

“ It is best not to count these things. 

‘‘ You think so! 1 have reason to judge differently!^^ 

“ But when one remembers, madame, the silence, the faith- 
ful devotion with which I guard a secret, which — 

He paused abruptly, warned by the motion of Ida^s uplifted 
hand, and the flash of her eyes. 

“ Giuseppe !^^ 

“ Pardon, madame. I have been rash; 1 did but wish — 

‘‘ Our interview has lasted long enough !^^ said Ida, rising 
haughtily. “ You want money, and I am in your power to a 
certain degree.’^ 

Giuseppe looked at her, wondering what these last words 
might signify, but he merely bowed his head by way of an an- 
swer in the affirmative. 

‘‘ How much is it?^^ 

If but a trifling hundred pounds might — 

Enough — and how long will that satisfy your greed?’^ 

“ Madame, 1 shall not again intrude upon your kindness at 
present.'’^ 

“ So you always say, Giuseppe.'’^ 

I mean it, madame, this time.^^ 

“ Very well.^’ 

Without another word she sat down at the table and filled 
up a check on Messrs. Bangs, Leary & Co. to the amount of 
one hundred pounds, signing her name boldly to its printed 
form. 

Giuseppe glanced first at the signature, then at Ida, as he 
took the paper. It was a riddle he was as yet scarcely astute 
enough to read. 

“ I have seen her twice, he said, slowly, since I was here 
last. Once at the door of the Grand Opera House — my faith, 
but the jewels shone like fire upon her, as she stood there, 
waiting for her laggard carriage to be announced; once in the 
street, when she drove by, while I could but just catch a 
glimpse of her face. 

‘‘ Did she see you?^^ asked Ida, who had turned pale. 

‘‘ No, I did not mean that she should. The eagle swoops 
but once upon its prey.” 

“ What do you mean by that, Giuseppe?” demanded Ida. 


IDA chalonek’s heart. 171 

‘‘Was she not the murderess of my master?’^ he asked, 
with livid lips and flaming eyes. 

“ Then give me back that check, said Mrs. Delamere, 
resolutely, extending her hand. “ My gold has purchased you 
in vain!"^ 

“ Again madame has misapprehended me,^^ said Giuseppe, 
reproachfully. “ Does madame think I can forget that she, 
too, has the blood of the L^Echelles in her veins? No, never! 
She is safe enough from my denouncements; but, neverthe- 
less, the time shall come for her to know that others are aware 
of the crime she has committed 

“ Giuseppe,^^ said Ida, coldly, “ you have gained the object 
of your visit. There is no need for prolonging it — now go!^^ 

“ Madame, interjected the Italian, “ I — 

“ Go, 1 say!’^ 

And Giuseppe knew from the expression of her eyes and 
voice, as she spoke the words, that there was no alternative for 
him but to obey. 

No one who has not been thrown at the mercy of circum- 
stances can fully learn the measure of his own character. 
Thoughts, feelings, and impulses lie dormant in the human 
soul, like the treasures in the heart of a mountain, and they 
are to be developed only by the miner ^s shaft of circumstance. 
Up to this year of her life, Ida Delamere had been a thought- 
less, irresponsible child, dependent upon others for the veriest 
trifle of her daily existence. Now she was a woman, self-re- 
liant, and quick at expedient — a child, alas! no longer. 

After mature deliberation, she had made her plans to leave 
Paris in a week or two, but in the meanwhile she was engaged 
to several balls, receptions, and soirees which she judged it in- 
expedient to give up. 

“ I will give occasion for no whispering innuendo or barbed 
arrow of scandal,’^ she thought to herself, with an involuntary 
straightening of the lithe, slender form. “ I will carry my 
royal state to the very last.'’^ 

And she did so. Mme. d’Ancour, who had been confi- 
dentially told by Ida that her husband was called suddenly 
away on business, volunteered, with great empressemeni , to 
become her chaperon wherever she wished to go, and Ida ac- 
cepted the ofler. * 

“ It will be but a short tirne,^^ she said, “ for I shall proceed 
to London in a very few days.'’^ 

Mme. d^Aiicour professed herself quite miserable at the idea 
of losing Mrs. Delamere, but in the meanwhile it would give 
her, yes, the greatest of happiness to accompany so charming 


m 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


a friend into the various salons of their mutual acquaintances 
— and M. d^Ancour, a little, bustling man, with a shining bald 
top to his head and the freshest of sixty-year-old complexions, 
agreed with her most enthusiastically. 

So I am provided for,^^ thought Ida. Well, the hollow 
show must come to an end sooner or later, then — then I will go 
back to Deepdale again.'” 

But she had not yet decided upon what she was to tell them 
all at Deepdale. How could she account for Eeginald^s 
abandonment of the name and rights of a husband? What 
story could she fabricate that would have a sufficiently fair 
show of truth to bear the searching gaze of Mr. Gresham’s 
eyes, the tender inquiry of Eleanor’s face? 

Should she tell them the actual facts? She could not en- 
tirely; and, after all, was half a lie less egregious than a whole 
one? The secret that she had a mother — a mother whose hand 
had been dipped in the crimson stain of murder — that must 
be preserved inviolable, at all hazards. To no human ear 
could she confide a story like this! No human sympathy could 
be allowed to soothe the soreness of her solitary wounded 
heart. 

I must tell them that we were unsuited to each other,” 
she thought; “ that Reginald was jealous and quick-tempered, 
and that J, perhaps, was not sufficiently yielding, and so we 
deemed it best to part. And yet — how can I? How mildly 
Papa Gresham’s kind eyes will look reproach at me! How 
they will all remember, even if they do not actually recall to 
my mind in so many words, the warnings by which they strove 
to turn me from my waywardness? Oh, it will be bitter, be- 
yond expression, to endure all this!” 

And in the contemplation of these possibilities, Ida was 
almost tempted to give up the idea of returning to the rural 
Connecticut valleys, where she had been so happy once; it 
seemed to her now that it was years instead of months ago. 

But I will not think of these things now,” she resolved. 

I should go mad if I thought of everything that hangs 
like a shadow over my future. It will be time enough when I 
am on the verge of my departure from Paris.” 

There was to be a ball at the English embassador’s one 
night — a ball which half Paris had been talking and dreaming 
about for the last month. And Ida Delamere was among the 
fortunate few who had received an invitation. The empress 
was to be there, with all the ladies of her court, and Mme. 
d’Ancour congratulated herself that her first chaperonage of 


IDA CIIALONEE^S HEAK^. 173 

the beautiful young American was to be to such a scene of 
splendor and exclusiveness as this. 

‘‘ And what is it, ma lelle, that you will wear?^^ she com- 
placently demanded of Ida, as she sat in the latter^s drawing- 
room, her purple satin robes spreading in ample shining full- 
ness about her, and her face beaming with satisfaction and 
complacency. 

‘‘ Black, madame!^^ 

‘‘ Black!'’^ Mme. d^Ancour actually recoiled in the plenitude 
of her astonishment. Black to a fete like this of the high- 
born Englishman?’^ 

Yes, black; why not?’^ 

Ma chere, they wear black at the convents — the funer- 
als—^’ 

The empress wore black velvet at Madame d’Essey’s last 
week.” 

Yes; but the empress — she indulges a taste Mzarre as well 
as imperial.” 

That is precisely what 1 mean to do, madame.” 

But widows wear black — you, via telle, are not a widow.” 

Ida shuddered slightly; something in Mme. d’Ancour’s 
words made the color die slosvly out of her cheeks as she sat 
there, never lifting her drooped eyelids. 

‘‘No,” she said, seeing that Mme. d’Ancour waited as if 
for a reply; “I am not a widow, certainly.” While her 
heart added the sequel: “Perhaps it would be better if I 
were!” 

“ Then why this strange idea?” 

“ Oh, it is a whim — a fancy. J have worn every other color 
until I am tired of their garish glow and brilliance. Eemon- 
strance is unavailing, madame ” — with an arch little raising 
of the ietty eyebrows — “for black is to be the color of my 
ball-dress!” 

“Nay, then, mon amie,^^ said Mme. d’Ancour, with im- 
perturbable good nature, “ black let it be. But you will look 
beautiful in whatever you choose to wear — of that 1 am quite 
assured!” 

Mme. d’Ancour was quite convinced of the wisdom of this 
last assertion on the evening of the ball in question, when her 
carriage drew up in front of Mrs. Delamere’s residence, and 
she rustled up the stairway greatly to the astonishment of old 
Anastase. 

“ Blue silk and diamonds, and blue plumes in, her hair,” 
croaked the old concierge, “ and she must be a woman of my 
age, too; it’s a fine thing to be rich and cast one’s years behind 


174 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEART. 


one, but n^importe; le Ion Dieii is not to be deceived by their 
grimaces and rouge, and death will find them out just as soon 
as if they did not run away from him in a carriage-and-fourl^^ 

Ida sat reading, or pretending to read, all ready and waiting 
for Mme. d^Ancour. She rose with a smile as the fat old 
lady who had formed the subject of Anastase^s unfavorable 
comment entered. 

Mme. d’Ancour stopped short, with a little exclamation of 
delight. 

“Ah, ma beUe!’^ she exclaimed. “You are resplendent! 
You are like a tropic night I’ ^ 

Ida was robed in a black dress of some floating gauze-like 
material, embroidered all over in tiny stars of silver thread, 
which gleamed and shone dimly, whichever way she turned. 
A silver sash, crossing her breast, and passing beneath her left 
arm, hung in long fringed ends of silver nearly to the hem of 
her dress, and a coronet of natural flowers, the white wax-like 
stars of the jasmine, was loosely twisted among her curls. 
Pearls at her throat and wrists, and a silver fan, completed 
this singular and yet enchanting toilet, which perhaps suited 
Ida^s style more completely than anything she had yet worn. 

“ You like it then?^^ said Ida, almost carelessly; the fancy 
had passed off now, and she hardly cared for the impression 
her costume should make, one way or the other. 

“ It is lovely,^^ cried Mme. d^Ancour, “ and yet,^^ as she 
led the way down-stairs to the carriage where her husband was 
taking a drowsy succession of short naps, “ it will keep occur- 
ring to me that you look too much like une jeune veuve, a 
young widow, ma chere,'^ , 

She laughed as she spoke, but Anastase from her little sanc- 
tum heard it and sniffed venomously over the contents of her 
horn snuff-box. 

“ Who talks of jeunes veuves?’^ grumbled Anastase, under 
her breath. “ Is it then the old painted parrot? and does she 
not know, ma foi, that with a wife who has not yet been mar- 
ried, it is unlucky? But she — what could one expect of her 
with her tricks?^^ 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

TIDIJiTGS OF EYIL. 

The evening at the English embassador’s was even pleas- 
anter than Ida had anticipated possible. Her peculiar dress, 
unique in fancy and bold in style, her beauty, fresh and daz- 
zling with the additional charm of a certain pensiveness that 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAKT. 


175 


had characterized it lately, and the unstudied grace and piqu- 
ancy of her manner, secured brilliant success at this the closing 
grand festivity of the season. 

Had Lady Bernmouth been there, she would have been more 
incensed than ever at the increase of admiration accorded to 
this “ black-eyed American child, as she had called Mrs. 
Delame re, but she was in Home, enjoying the quieter gayeties 
of the Eternal City, and Ida had to be contented with nursing 
the mortal enmity of sundry other high-born and titled ladies, 
who could not find it in their hearts to forgive the capital sins 
of youth, beauty, and unaffected fascination of manner. 

She enjoyed it all. For a brief season she seemed to forget 
the trials of the past, the troubles that yet loomed darkly in 
the future, and basked, like a human butterfly, in the sun- 
shine of the present. 

And when Mme. d^Ancour, yawning portentously behind 
her fan, told her that it «ras time to go home, Ida exclaimed 
aloud : 

‘‘ Is it possible that it is so late? After this one galop, ma- 
dame — I have promised it."^^ 

Mme. d^Ancour assented smilingly. 

‘‘ One is not to forget that one was young one^s self,^’ was 
her good-humored comment, as she stood leaning on the arm 
of her somnolent lord and master, who was very nearly asleep 
on his feet. 

I have enjoyed it so much, madame,^^ Ida said, as she 
parted from Mme. d’Ancour at the door of her hotel. 

“ Bien, my child, that is well,’^ nodded the old lady, as the 
carriage door was closed. 

Mathilde was waiting in the anteroom. 

“ There is one waiting to see madame,^’ she said, as Mrs. 
Delamere entered, “ in the drawing-room beyond. 

‘‘ One? Whom do you mean? Not ’’ — and a crimson flush 
of anger crossed her forehead as the idea occurred to her — 
“not Giuseppe?^^ 

“No, madame; an Englishman— a stranger; I never saw 
him before. 

For Mathilde had a keen memory for faces. 

“ Has he been waiting long?^^ asked Ida, slowly unclasping 
the cords of her white cashmere wrappings and drawing off 
her gloves. 

“ He reached here two hours ago. At first he was going to 
you, at the hotel of Monsieur FAmbassadeur; but I explained 
to him that you would soon be home, and he has waited. 
Madame is not usually so late as this/^ said Mathilde, with a 


176 IDA CHALONEE^S HEAET. / 

glance at the clock, whose dial indicated the hour of four in 
the morning. / 

‘‘It is very strange/’ thought Ida. She could not imagind 
who should possibly come to see her at such an hour as this. 
“ Could it be — and her heart gave a sudden spasmodic leap 
— “ could it be Eeginald, weary of their separation, longing to 
behold her again 

What nonsense! And Ida bit the dewy velvet of her crim- 
son lip until the fresh blood started, sharply indignant with 
herself. Had not Mathilde seen and spoken with the stranger? 
And, without pausing to indulge in any more fruitless conject- 
ure, Mrs. Delamere walked straight through the anteroom, 
and, turning the gilded door-handle of the inner apartment, 
entered. 

A tall gentlemanly looking young man, of about five-and- 
twenty, rose from his seat, beside a table heaped with books 
and magazines, as Ida’s footsteps SQ^inded on the threshold. 
At the first glance she could see that he was handsome and 
dark, and a total stranger to her; nor could she fail to observe 
the surprised admiration with which he regarded her lovely 
face and the floating black dress, whose skirts, gemmed with 
silvery gleams, had the same efiect as if she had drawn a train 
of stars after her. 

“ Have I the honor of speaking to Mrs. Delamere?” 

“lam Mrs. Delamere.” 

He drew a card from his pocket. 

“ Allow me to introduce myself to you as Jerome Leary, 
the younger brother and head-clerk of Mr. Leary, of the firm 
of Bangs, Leary & Co., of Leadenhall Street, London.” 

Ida looked at the card, which confirmed his words, and in- 
clined her head courteously. 

“ Pray seat yourself again, sir. I presume you have come 
on business relative to the property in your charge?” 

Ida flattered herself that she was exceedingly business-like 
in her terms; and wondered, as she nestled down into a chair, 
whether Mr. Leary would detect her utter ignorance of all 
financial alfairs. 

“No, madame, I have not,” said Mr. Leary, growing pain- 
fully embarrassed in his manner. “ I am sent siDecially by the 
firm to break to you news which — which — ” 

“News!” repeated Ida, fixing her large, dark eyes on his 
face, with a grave, innocent surprise. “ I do not know what 
news you can possibly have to impart to me which can em- 
barrass you so much.” 

“I had almost hoped,” began Mr. Leary, “until I heard 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


177 


that you were at the hall of the English Embassy, that rumor 
had preceded me, and I might possibly be spared the painful 
task of— 

Again he stopped, his eyes riveted to the silver stars which 
glistened in the hem of her dress. 

Mr. Leary,^" said Ida, a vague sensation of suffocating ter- 
ror seeming to steal over her, I beg you will state at once 
and distinctly what you mean?'’^ 

I will do so, madame, if you will prepare yourself for bad 
news — for the worst news, in fact!^’^ 

He was watching her now with painful interest, as the sur- 
geon watches the pulse of a patient about to undergo some 
fearful surgical operation. She felt the intentness of his 
troubled gaze, yet she could not have spoken her mind, had 
it been to save her life. 

‘‘ It is but a brief while,^^ he went on, “ since your husband 
left you, Mrs. Delamere. You may, perhaps, already have 
been expecting his return. If so, let me undeceive you; he 
will not be able to return at present. 

Is he ill?^^ 

Ida tried to syllable the words, but they seemed to die away, 
soundless and unspoken, on her lips. Possibly, however, Mr. 
Jerome Leary ^s senses were sharper than hers, or perhaps he 
read the quivering motion of her lips, for he answered, in a 
low, grave voice: 

He is very ill! Mrs. Delamere, he is dead!^^ 

Dead! my husband — dead?’^ 

She sunk back so perfectly colorless that Mr. Leary sprung 
to call for help, fancying that she was about to swoon away, 
but she beckoned him to resume his seat. 

No — no! I shall not faint. I shall be better in a minute. 
It was the shock — so sudden, so unexpected. Have I been 
dreaming, or did you tell me that my husband was dead?’"’ 

“ Alas! you are only in too full possession of your waking 
senses, Mrs. Delamere !^^ 

How did it happen — when?^’ she gasped. 

It was on the 13th of February last, in the Bay of Naples, 
off the southward coast of Italy. Mr. Delamere, with some 
friends, had started to cross from the Island of Ischia in a lit- 
tle boat, which unfortunately was too lightly constructed to 
sustain the sudden gusts which are at times not unusual in 
that climate. A squall, unforeseen even by the experienced 
old sailors who manned the boat, caused it to be driven vio- 
lently, and upset beyond the reach of help, and all on board 
perished in the waves 


178 


IDA CHALOKER’S heart. 


His voice, low pitched and full of sympathetic earnestness, 
sunk into silence. Ida sat looking vaguely at the floor, trying 
to comprehend the full meaning of what she had just listened 
to. The last words seemed to reverberate like a mournful 
echo through her brain. 

‘‘ Perished she repeated, in a low, strange tone — “ per- 
ished 

‘ ‘ Mr. Delamere^s remains, washed on shore the next day at 
Ischia,'’^ resumed Mr. Leary, speaking as softly as if he were 
himself in the presence of the corpse, “ are interred at Naples, 
and will be subject to your wish, should you prefer to have 
them reburied nearer home. The melancholy tidings reached 
us only this morning, through a letter from our branch house 
at Naples — Carodenti & Co.'’’ 

Another silence ensued, during which the low ticking of the 
clock sounded ominously loud in the ears of Mr. Jerome 
Leary; but Ida still sat in utter silence. 

“ Are there any arrangements you would like to have us 
make for you, either here, in Naples, or in London?” he in- 
quired at last, growing nervous in the strange hush which 
surrounded him. 

Ida shook her head. 

No, she could think of none. 

“Nor in any way in which we could be of use to you in set- 
tling your affairs or completing any unflnished business which 
may possibly cause you annoyance?” 

“You are very kind,” said Ida, speaking languidly, as if 
every word were an effort to her; “ but there is no necessity 
for your troubling yourself.” 

“ It will become at once our duty and our pleasure to re- 
lieve you of any unnecessary care and annoyance. Should 
you think of anything we can do, I shall remain in Paris for a 
few days subject to your orders. It is, perhaps, my duty to 
inform you,” he added, after a brief silence, “ that you are 
the sole and unencumbered inheritrix, through the provisions 
of a will executed in London just before Mr. Delamere’s de- 
parture for Italy, of the whole of his very extensive fortune 
and estates, both in the United States and the Island of Cuba. 
This document will be proven as soon as practicable. In the 
meantime we hold ourselves in readiness to advance you any 
and all sums of which you may stand in need.” 

Ida listened mechanically to him, hearing the words with- 
out comprehending more than their empty sound. 

“ Mr. Leary,” she said, looking piteously up into his face, 
“ this is very sudden and startling. Will you please tell it to 


^ IDA chalokek^s heart. 179 

me all over again? My brain seems to Avander. I think 1 
have been dreaming and can not have understood you!^^ 

Mr. Jerome Leary poured out a glass of water from a cut- 
glass carafe upon the table. 

“ If you were to drink some of this, madame, I think it 
would relieve you. 

Ida drank without a remonstrance. 

“ Thank you. Now will you explain it all?^^ 

Once more the young representative of the great London 
firm slowly repeated the tidings which had seemed to Ida too 
awful and sudden to be true. There was no mistaking them 
— she was a widow. The young husband, whose romantic de- 
votion had been so like a fairy-tale, whose love had almost at 
times terrified her in its intensity of devotion, was but a name 
and a memory now. She tried to think of him as dead and 
buried in a foreign land, and then she remembered that it had 
been to Naples they were going when wearied of the bright 
diversities of Paris. She recalled the plans they had made for 
the early spring, which they were to spend in Italy — the im- 
possible routes she had proposed, and the merry way in which 
he had laughed at her childish impracticabilities. He had 
preceded her to Naples — and now? A corpse, placed beneath 
one of those pictured old altars she had remembered years ago, 
and there laid away to everlasting rest, where the storms and 
sorrows of life should never reach him more. 

She had grown so ghastly pale that Jerome Leary hurried 
across the room and called to Mathilde. 

“ Your mistress is taken very ill,^^ he said, hastily. “ She 
has had bad news. Her husband is dead.^’ 

Mathilde broke into a torrent of French lamentations, sob- 
bing and crying vehemently, while her mistress sat quite quiet 
and passive. 

‘‘ Is there no lady-friend she could send for to-night?’^ asked 
Mr. Leary. “ She should not be left alone at such a time as 
this.^^ 

“ There is Madame d^Ancour,^^ whispered Mathilde, and 
there is Lady Helen Dalton, and — 

‘‘ Give me the address of one of them; I will go at once.^^ 

But Ida checked him. 

“ No,^^ she said, faintly; “ no one. I would far, far rather 
be alone until — until the first shock is over. Mathilde will do 
all that I can require. 

“But, Mrs. Delamere — 

“ You are very kind,^^ persisted Ida, “ but I would rather 
be alone. 


180 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


‘‘ Shall I call again in the morning to receive your orders?^^ 

I shall have no orders to give. I do not wish to be dis- 
turbed.^^ 

The day after, then?^’ 

Yes — no — I can not tell. Oh!^^ in a voice of wailing en- 
treaty, if you would only stop talking to me. I want to 
think — I want to be alone. 

Mr. Leary withdrew, giving to Mathilde a slip of paper on 
which he had hastily penciled an address, “ Hotel du Louvre, 
No. 177 .’’ 

‘‘ In case of need,'’^ he explained to the bewildered French 
girl. 

When he was gone, this irresponsible messenger of bad tid- 
ings, Ida seemed to breathe more freely. 

“ Take off my things, Mathilde,^^ she said, in a low voice, 

and let me lie down in bed.^’ 

She shrunk with a sort of loathing from the glittering dress 
and wreath of withered flowers as Mathilde removed them 
with light, expeditious fingers. She had been waltzing in 
those, with pearls gleaming round her neck, and the glad, 
mocking sound of music in her ears, while he, her husband of 
less than a year, was lying, cold and coffined, in his grave. 
Why did no warning voice sound in her ears? Why did no 
premonition from th^e land of spirits tell her of the moment 
when the heart that had been so entirely her own grew cold 
and pulseless forever? *She had not loved Iiirn as a wife should 
love her husband — her heart had never fully answered the 
cravings of his deep, unutterable affection; yet, now that he 
was gone, she forgot all the boy-and-girl altercations, and re- 
membered only that he was Reginald, and that he was dead. 

“ Will madame try to sleep a little while now?’^ said Ma- 
thilde, as she brought to her a seething cup of some hot drink, 
mixed by Anastase, and recommended as a sovereign tonic in 
case of nervousness or overweariness. Ida swallowed it with- 
out knowing what it was. 

“ Yes,"’^ she said, laying her cold cheek against the snowy 
lace ruffles of the ]3illow, and letting her eyelids fall heavily 
over the eyes that were like burning coals in her head; but she 
could not sleep at all; and morning, darting its cruel sun- 
beams through the half-drawn curtains, as if there were no 
death and darkness in the world, found her still wakeful, and 
brooding over the great change which had come over her life. 

‘‘ Did I not see it, then?’’ croaked old Anastase, brandish- 
ing her fork over the frying-pan which contained her morn- 
ing meal when Mathilde, fancying her mistress still slumber- 


IDA CHALOKEK^S HEART. 


181 


ing, crept noiselessly down-stairs to whisper the details of the 
terrible tidings which were already noised throughout the 
whole building. “ It was the chattering old parrot, and the 
black dress which madame luoiild wear. These things doiiT 
come by chance, and why did she speak thus — the old woman 
with the painted face? Une jeiine veuve, indeed. She will 
never be une jeiine veuve, ITl warrant her. But, all the same, 
I am sorry for our young lady. Heaven help her!^^ 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

THE HEW COURIER. 

Mme. Avioli’s reception hours on this particular day of 
the week were from twelve to three, and she had hardly en- 
tered her receiving-room — a high-ceiled apartment, hung with 
draperies of violet silk, and furnished with a taste whose de- 
tails seemed to set expense at defiance, when M. de Ramirou 
was announced. 

He came in, looking flushed and excited. 

“ You have heard the news, Madame Avioli?^^ he cried, 
scarcely pausing for the ordinary matter-of-course greetings 
of the morning. 

“ I have heard no special news,'’^ said Mme. Avioli, bending 
toward a vase of flowers to break off a sprig of sweet-scented 
geranium. What has happened 
You have not, then, learned it?^^ 

Learned what. Monsieur de Ramirou? You speak in 
riddles. 

“ The sudden death of Monsieur Helamere, the husband of 
la belle Americaine. 

“Head! Reginald Helamere dead!^^ ^Ime. Avioli stood in 
the middle of the room, white as the japonicas which filled the 
flower-baskets at her side. “It is not possible — it can not 
be!’^ 

“It is all over Paris this morning, madame, asserted M. 
de Ramirou, with the complacency of one who is the first to 
impart a startling piece of news. 

“ How did it happen? Have you learned the details?^’ 

“Not entirely, madame. He was drowned in the Bay of 
Naples a few days ago.^^ 

“ And Ida?^^ 

M. de Ramirou shook his head. “ Na3% you yourself 
knew, madame, that she was at the ball of the English Em- 
bassy last night, poor child, gay as a bird, and all unconscious 
of what Fate had prepared for her. 


182 


IDA CHALONEll’S HEABT. 


I must go to her at once/' said Mme. Avioli, hurriedly. 
“You will excuse me, I am sure. Monsieur de Eamirou. She 
is so young, and she has so few real friends 

Certainly, of course the polite little Frenchman would ex- 
cuse madame; he had but looked in on her on his way to other 
friends. The poor young widow would, doubtless, need Mme. 
Avioli’s friendly presence as soon as possible; and so M. de 
Eamirou bowed himself out of the room, while Mme. Avioli 
violently pulled the bell-cord. 

“ Tell Sebastian to bring up the carriage at once— let him 
lose no timeT^ 

Sebastian obeyed promptly, but to Mme. Avioli it seemed 
an age before she was seated- in the carriage, driving toward 
the abode of the newly made widow. 

“ She will surely receive me now,^^ thought Mme. Avioli. 
“ In such a moment of sudden affliction as this the caprices 
of a thoughtless girl will be forgotten, and she will remember 
then I loved her and was his friend!’^ 

Mathilde admitted her with swollen eyes and handkerchief 
to her face. 

Was it, then, madame? She had learned of the great, the 
irreparable loss which had befallen them. Yes, Mme. Dela- 
mere was quite alone, and so still; of a stillness which made 
her, Mathilde, tremble. She did not weep. She sat and 
looked straight before her. Mathilde had seen marble figures 
like the poor, young madame. Nobody could rouse her. 
Should she take in the countesses card? 

Mme. Avioli shook her head. 

“ I will not send in my card. I will go to her at once. No. 
Mathilde, do not announce me.^^ 

And with light steps and noiseless motion the countess em 
tered the semi- darkened room, where Ida was sitting in a 
white wrapper, looking into the coral shine of the fire, one 
cheek leaning on her hand, and her loose curls, unconfined by 
any hand or fillet, hanging in jet-black rings round her ashen 
pale face. 

Mme. Avioli came close to her side before the newly made 
widow was conscious of her presence in the room. 

“ Ida,^’ she whispered — “ my poor, poor Ida!^^ 

Ida recoiled as if the countess’s soft voice had been the hiss 
of a serpent. She rose to her feet at once. 

“ You here?” she said, in cold, bitter accents. “ Who 
dared admit you? Have you no respect, then, for the sanctity 
of death?” 


IDA chaloner’s heart. 183 

‘‘I have come to console you, Ida, began the countess, 
faltering. I — 

I will have none of your consolation,^^ said Ida, resolute- 
ly. “ Your very presence here is an insult 
But, Ida— 

“ Do not call me by that name again! I am ^ Ida only to 
my friends. Madame Avioli, will you leave this room, or shall 
I ring for Achille to show you to the door?^'’ 

Mme. Avioli stood, her color changing from red to white, 
in the middle of the room. 

“ You will not let me comfort you, Ida? You will not let 
me sympathize with you in the loss you have sustained?’^ 

“ Your sympathy would be worse than the most utter soli- 
tude, returned Ida, seeming to freeze into marble, as she 
stood there, unrelenting and haughty. 

‘"Ida,^" burst out Mine. Avioli, with clasped hands, ‘‘he 
trusted in me, he who is gone! Is that no testimony in my 
favor?^^ 

“ 1 ^ 0 / ^ Ida returned, unheedingly. “ He did not know you. 
I do!^^ 

“ How do you mean, know me, Ida? Those words are per- 
fectly incomprehensible to me!^’ 

Madame Avioli, your presence is distasteful to me; your 
proffered sympathy only an insult. From this moment I will 
never speak to you again. Leave the room, and leave me to 
my own sorrow. In that at least there is no sin— no shame !^’ 

She rang the bell. 

“ Mathilde, show Madame Avioli to the door. 

The countess obeyed, pale and passive. To her Ida was an 
enigma; yet she had dearly loved the girl, and would fain have 
comforted her in the first shock of her widowhood. Now, re- 
pelled and driven away, she could but weep and wonder. 

“ It is a strange enigma,^ ^ she pondered; “ but some day it 
will be unraveled. At least, I can do no more.'’^ 

So the first weeks of Ida^s bereavement passed away. Day 
after day she resolved to write to Mrs. Gresham; but day after 
day elapsed, and still she had not performed the task. There 
was one consolation— now; at least she should not be com- 
pelled to tell the story of their separation by mutual agree- 
ment. Death had hidden all the secrets of their unhappiness, 
and no one would now require an explanation of what would 
be so difficult to explain away. The shock had been sharp and 
sudden at first; yet Ida could not but feel it a relief, now that 
she was left free and unfettered, still under the age of sevea-^ 
teen. 


184: 


IDA CHA loner’s HEART. 


It is strange/’ she thought — so strange that I can as 
yet hardly understand it myself. Most girls of my age are 
just standing on life’s threshold^, their hearts untouched, their 
destinies untried, the world lying before them like the glitter- 
ing landscape of a picture. It is not so with me. I have lived 
out my life.” 

And she was not yet seventeen! Her plans were as yet quite 
unsettled, and she was resolving that the very next day she 
would spend the morning in writing to her friends at Deep- 
dale Eectory, when, on a bright March noontide, Mme. d’An- 
cour was announced. 

My dear,” said the good-hearted French matron, 1 have 
come to make you a proposal. I would have spoken before, 
but your grief was too new, your sorrow too sudden.” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Ida, rather evading the subject of her tragic 
bereavement. What is it, madame?” 

Have you as yet decided what to do or where to go?” 

‘‘ No, not entirely ” — not at all, she might have said with 
truth. 

Then, my dear, you will perhaps consent to gratify me by 
joining Monsieur d’Ancour and myself on a journey — a series 
of travel, I may perhaps call it, which we promise ourselves 
to take. We are old people — we are quiet — we travel to rest, 
to recreate ourselves. We shall be gone one year — two years 
— perhaps longer, perhaps shorter, as the fancy takes us. We 
shall visit Rome, Switzerland, the Holy Land — the East, 
wherever our inclinations lead us. There will be no set pro- 
gramme, no given time to go or come. Your society, my 
dear, would give us something of youth, of brightness, which 
God has denied us when He gave us no children. And you 
— it will not be the worse for you, I assure myself. You need 
change now, of all times in the world.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Ida, musingly, “it was very kind of you to 
think of me, Madame d’Ancour.” 

“ How is it, then, my child?” demanded the plump old 
countess, evidently exhilarated by the hope that her request 
had not been made in vain. “You will go?” 

“ Yes, I will go with you.” 

“ And how soon can your preparations be made?” 

“ I have no preparations, madame. I can go at any time.” 

“ BienP^ ejaculated Mme. d’Ancour. “ We will then set 
forth early in the week — and I go to delight my husband with 
the assurance that our journey is to be enlivened with your 
presence and companionship. You are like a favorite child to 


IDA CHA LONER HEART. 185 

my ^ood husband, ma petite Ida; he will be glad to hear what 
I have to tell!’^ 

And Mme. la Comtesse d’Ancour went gleefully away, un- 
conscious of the scornful gaze of derision with which Anastase 
regarded her as she unlocked the door to let her out! 

“ It will be the best plan,^^ thought Ida, when she was left 
alone. I could not have remained in Paris by myself, and 
somehow I can not go back to Deepdale just yet and answer 
all their questions, and darken the sunshine of their peaceful 
home with my black garments and the horrible consciousness 
of the secret which I can tell to no one. Some day, perhaps, 
I may go back, but not ]iow. In the meantime — And she 
drew the inlaid satin-wood desk, which had been Eeginald^s 
gift, toward her, and wrote a long, loving, confidential letter 
to Eleanor Gresham, in which she told her of her widowhood, 
and her resolve to pass the next year or two in traveling with 
her friends, M. le Comte d^Ancour and his wife, closing with 
many expressions of affection toward all the quiet household 
in the Connecticut valley. There, she thought, with a 
sigh, lighting a scented wax taper to seal the epistle with its 
heavy splash of black wax, that is done. How they will all 
wonder when they see the deep black border round the en- 
velope. I should not be surprised,^’ she added, bitterly, to 
herself, if they mourned for poor Eex quite as deeply and 
sincerely as I do. I hate myself sometimes when I think 
how cold and impassive I am; i3ut how can I help it? I never 
should have become his wife, for every day that I live I am 
more deeply convinced of the fact that I did not really love 
him — poor, poor Eex!^^ 

Nearly a week had passed, when one day, as Mathilde was 
busied in packing her mistresses mourning habiliments in the 
huge traveling-trunks which were ranged in the dressing- 
room, Anastase called in a shrill tone to her: 

“ Is it not twelve o^ clock, and madamees chocolate, then — 
why does she not ring for 

“Madame is ready,^^ called back Mathilde, “but I have 
the laces all spread on the floor. Achille will bring it up!^'’ 

Mts. Helamere was sitting in her drawing-room, a book in 
her hand, and little Bijou sleeping in her lap, when the door 
swung noiselessly open on its hinges, and the little tray of 
chocolate, with its silver pot and painted cup of rare old trans- 
parent china was brought in. 

“ Put it on the table, Achille,^’ she said, without looking 
up. 

The tray was deposited on the little round stand, draped 


186 


Ida chaloner^s he am. 


with an embroidered cloth, which stood near her, and still the 
man stood beside it, as if awaiting further orders. 

“ I want nothing more,^^ she said, looking up, and^ — 

It was Giuseppe, instead of Achille, who had brought in her 
cup of chocolate, and now stood bowing obsequiously before 
her. 

Madame will pardon me — but I was coming up, and the 
faithful Achille, learning that 1 had business with madame, 
allowed me the pleasure of carrying the tray of chocolate. 

Ida leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes with an 
expression of resignation. The man was obnoxious to her, 
but he must be tolerated. 

‘‘ Well, Giuseppe, what is it?^’ 

‘‘ I have not yet condoled with madame in her great, her 
irreparable loss!’^ 

“ Was that what you wanted to say?^^ 

“ Not entirely, madame. I have learned that madame con- - 
templates going abroad?^^ 

“ You have heard aright.'’^ 

“ For an indefinite period of time?’^ 

‘^Yes.^’ 

“ And — did madame bethink herself of the poor Giuseppe?^^ 

I was compelled to think of you, Giuseppe, said Ida, 
with a languid light of scorn in her eyes, although you are 
not a pleasant subject of reflection. I should have left orders 
with my bankers to credit you to any reasonable sum — mind, 
Giuseppe, reasonable — for which you might draw upon them.*^^ 
Madame is all kindness, said the Italian, depressing his 
shoulders, as if quite borne down by the weight of her gener- 
osity. “ But I have another plan to propose. 

“ Another plan, Giuseppe 

If madame will not be angry. The man seemed, in his 
quick, wily motions, to deprecate her wrath. “ Madame will 
need the services of a courier — one who is experienced, active, 
and devoted to madame^s comfort. Behold in me the man!^^ 

He laid his hand on his breast, with a low bow. 

But there was very little encouragement for him in Ida’s 
contracted brows. 

“ I have already Achille.’^ 

“ Pouf Giuseppe made a little sound as if he were blow- 
ing away a thistledown. ‘‘ Achille is well in his way, but he 
has never been outside of Paris. He has no experience — no 
versatility. Achille speaks but one language, his native 
French. As for me, I am a cosmopolitan. It will be for ma- 
dame’s best interests to allow me to accompany her as courier. 


IDA chaloker’s heart. 187 

Ida^s heart sunk within her at the idea of this man^s dog- 
ging her, like a shadow, everywhere. 

“ Giuseppe, she said, irritably, “ I do not want you.'^^ 
Madame will never persist in such cruelty, said the 
Italian, smir kingly. 

“ And I will not take you in my suite,^^ she added, in a 
tone of resolution. 

“ But look you, madame — Giuseppe advanced close to her 
on tiptoe and lowered his voice to an accent that was almost 
a whisper — “ the world is divided into friends or enemies. 
One who is with you constantly, whose actions are subject to 
your scrutiny, who is devoted to your welfare — think, ma- 
dame, is it not safer?’ ^ 

The sudden blood mounted to Ida’s cheek. Did the man 
mean to threaten her? And yet her courage failed utterly at 
the remembrance of how completely she was in his power. 
Yes, she must comply with his insolent requisitions; there was 
no other course left open to her. And, after all, second 
thoughts proved conclusively to her that the man was right. 
It would be safer to have him always under her own eye. He 
might threaten and tyrannize over her — she must take the risk 
of that — but he could not very well play her false. 

‘‘Giuseppe,” she said, after a few minutes of reflection, 
“ your plau has its advantages. I will take you into my 
service.” 

The Italian bowed in a servile fashion; his eyes shone with 
subdued, triumphant light. 

“ Madame will have no reason to regret the course she has 
adopted,” he said. 

“We will start the day after to-morrow,” added Ida, quiet- 
ly; “you may hold yourself in readiness on that morning. 
IJntil then I have no orders for you.” 

Giuseppe again inclined his head and withdrew. He had 
conquered, yet he could not but respect the spirit and resolu- 
tion of his fair foe. 

But Mrs. Delamere’s chocolate, although made in Anastase’s 
best style, was quite flavorless to her this morning. 

“ Am I always to be haunted, followed, made miserable by 
this man?” she muttered to herself as she paced up and down 
her room, her crapes and bombazines rustling around her as 
she walked. “ Oh, if he too could be stricken out of my 
path!” 

And then she stopped short, with a paling cheek and a mo- 
mentary horror and distrust of herself. What dreadful possi- 
bility had been shaping itself in her mind? 


188 


IDA CHALONEE'S HEAET. 


What had Giuseppe once told her was the armorial motto of 
the L’Echelles? — “ Vengeance to the death/ "" And. she was 
— was she not? — a daughter of the L^EchelJes? 

Ida sat down shuddering. Until this moment she had never 
doubted herself. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

BEECHCLIFE. 

OuE story, bridging with a single stroke of the pen all those 
revolving days and months which humankind are compelled 
to live through, mercilessly and monotonously passes over a 
hiatus of seven years. 

Seven years!. There is much of incident and transforma- 
tion in seven years; but when they are closed over it is but 
the page of a volume turned and forgotten. So let them be 
as far as Ida Delamere^s life is concerned. 

It was sunset at Deepdale Rectory once more, and the mur- 
murs of the Connecticut River were filling the air with music 
as of old. The honeysuckle on the porch now, covered with 
the spicy sprays of blossoms, was, perhaps, a little denser in 
its green moving drapery. The apple-trees at the back door 
had grown older and more gnarled and spreading, while the 
lame puppy that had been the fostered darling of little Ida 
Chaloner^s girlhood had grown to a belligerent-looking dog 
with the least perceptible hobble in his dignified gait, and was 
now sunning himself on the door-mat, reflectively snapping at 
the flies as he lay extended at full length. 

Otherwise the rectory seemed but little changed; nor had 
Mr. and Mrs. Gresham, enjoying the cooler air that accom- 
panied the June sunset, upon the porch, altered greatly in the 
years that had elapsed since Rex Delamere and the giddy, 
beautiful child of their adoption electrified them with their 
stolen marriage. The good clergyman had looked old at 
thirty-five; at forty-eight, age seemed to have acquired no 
more marked advantage over him, while Mrs. Gresham, 
plump and fair-faced as ever, had actually appeared to grow 
younger. 

Mr. Gresham took no more pupils now. Eleanor was hap- 
pily married to Geoffrey Moreland, who had completely for- 
gotten that he had ever been madly in love with the black- 
eyed little playmate of his youth. Monty was in business in a 
neighboring town, and James and Angie were the only olive- 
branches left at the paternal hearthstone. 

In a moderate sort of way, Mr. Gresham was independent 


IDA CIIALONER^S HEART. 


189 


now. His tastes, and those of his family, were inexpensive 
and frugal, and he could afford to live at his ease. 

The rector had been reading, while his wife sat knitting 
silently by his side. Presently he closed the book, and taking 
off his spectacles, deposited them slowly in their case, and 
put the case into its place in his left hand waistcoat pocket. 

‘‘My dear, said the Keverend Mr. Gresham, “ isnT it 
about time for the children to be home?’^ 

“ Yes,^^ said Mrs. Gresham, mechanically glancing at the 
length of the shadows on the door-yard grass, “ I should think 
it was.'’^ 

“ I donT quite realize all this as yet, Selina, said the rec- 
tor. “ I dare say I shall in time. It seems so strange, you 
know, when one comes to think of it, that Ida is coming back 
again. Why, it’s nearly eight years since we have seen the 
child!” 

“ Nearly,” assented his wife. 

“ She’ll be changed, of course?” 

“ Oh, certainly, she’ll be changed! Let me see — she can’t 
be far from twenty-four years old now; she was considerably 
younger than our Eleanor, you know. ” 

“ It was a curious freak of hers, the buying of the old 
Beechcliff estate up the river,” went on the Eeverend Mr. 
Gresham, “ and yet there’s something touching in the idea of 
her wanting to be us near again. Ida was always an affection- 
ate little creature.” 

“ It is not every one who can afford to indulge in such ex- 
pensive freaks,” said Mrs. Gresham, who had not yet forgotten 
her way of looking at the common-sense aspect of affairs. 
“ Forty thousand dollars! and they tell me she has spent at 
least half as much more in fitting it up and furnishing it!” 

“ And not to tell us until just as she was coming to take 
possession for the summer, too,” added Mr. Gresham, smil- 
ing, as he slowly patted the lame dog’s head. “ She wanted 
to surprise us; well, well, she’s had her wish. Everybody was 
wondering who had bought the Beechcliff place, and they won- 
dered more and more when the landscape gardeners, and the 
architects, and the upholsterers swarmed over it. I remem- 
ber asking Squire Denholm about it, and he told me it had 
been bought by a lady from abroad; dear me, I never once 
dreamed of its being our Ida!” 

“ I suppose she will live in the city during the winter 
months,” said Mrs. Gresham. 

“ Most probably,” said the rector. 


190 


IDA CHALONER's heart. 


^‘Hush! didn^t I hear the children’s voices? Yes, here 
comes Angie now!” 

Angeliiie Gresham, a tall girl of nearly seventeen, had not 
grown into any special beauty in the seven years that have 
lapsed since our readers parted from her; but she was a fair, 
fresh-faced blonde, Vith a profusion of shining flaxen hair, a 
coral-red mouth, and an innocent expression of face, which 
reminded one of a white kitten, or a cluster of forget-me-nots, 
or any other guileless, confiding thing. Jamie, her compan- 
ion, was a stalwart young slip of eighteen or nineteen, just 
prepared for college; for it had been the one ambition of Mr. 
Gresham’s life to see his youngest son a clergyman, like him- 
self. 

“ Mamma,” cried Angie, breathlessly, as of old, “it is the 
prettiest place!” 

“ How does it happen that you are so early?” interposed 
Mr. Gresham. “It is hardly ten minutes since I heard the 
whistle of the down train; and, good pedestrian though you 
are, you could hardly have walked the distance in ten min- 
utes!” 

“ We did not, sir,” said Jamie. “ Squire Denholm’s lum- 
ber wagon was coming this way, and they brought us as far as 
the bars of the squire’s pasture-field.” 

“But about Beechclifi?” questioned Mrs. Gresham. “I 
want to hear about Ida’s home.” 

“ Oh, mamma, I never can tell you about it!” cried Angie, 
throwing herself on the porch-step at her mother’s feet. “ It 
is the grandest old stone mansion, with a row of white marble 
columns in front, like the picture of the Parthenon: and such 
a flight of marble steps, with vases of flowers taller than 
Jamie at their foot. And oh, mamma, don’t you think, there 
was an open carriage, with blue velvet cushions, met us at the 
depot: and a driver with a black velvet band round his hat, 
and he said the housekeeper had sent him to meet the train, 
and Jamie and I drove up the avenue as fine as you please!” 

“ Which comes first — the marble columns or the blue vel- 
vet cushions?” said Mr. Gresham, with a puzzled face. “ You 
are a little disconnected in your story, my dear.” 

“ I can’t help it, papa,” said Angie, laughing. “ I have to 
tell things just as I happen to think of them.” 

“ Well, go on,” said Mrs. Gresham, evidently much im- 
pressed by the driver with the black velvet band round his hat. 

“ Well, we walked all over the house, mamma. There are 
more rooms in it than you could count, such high ceilings, 
and the walls all paneled in white ^nd doye-color and gold, 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


191 


and great white staircases and niches all along the halh filled 
with real marble statues, which came from Italy last week. 
So the housekeeper says. And the floors are all covered with 
velvet carpet. Oh, mamma, it was like stepping on the moss 
in the woods, one^s feet sank down so dead and still-like! And 
such curtains, mamma! The satin of your best dress is noth- 
ii]g to them; and tassels so heavy one can scarcely lift them; 
and gilded stands of flowers in all the windows, which are 
taken away as soon as they go out of bloom and replaced by 
others; and pictures — Jamie said they were very fine, but they 
looked too dark and dull for me. And a conservatory, mam- 
ma, that you enter by a little railed balcony from the draw- 
ing-rooms. I called them parlors, but Mrs. Hyde always said 
drawing-rooms. So, I suppose, that is the polite way of ex- 
pressing it. Oh, that conservatory! It was like a temple of 
crystal, with a great dome over it, and there were trees of 
lemons and oranges, and a banana-tree in the center, with its 
top leaves brushing the glass, and acacias and passion-vines, 
and a little fountain hidden away so that you could only see 
the spray and hear the dripping sound! 1 stayed there til] 
Jamie got really impatient.'’^ 

“ There^s a deer park, father,’^ struck in Jamie, waxing 
weary of his sister’s details, and you never saw grounds laid 
out finer than that fellow from Boston has arranged these. 
It’s a complete succession of pretty surprises — one wild nook 
after another, and every one so perfectly developed. There 
were some capital ideas in rustic bridges — these, and the boat- 
house on the river, it was a picture in itself, with a flight of 
stone steps leading down to the w^ater-side, with rails of twist- 
ed cedar, all covered with woodbine, that you would declare 
had been growing there for years. Oh, father, what a thing 
money is! There’s Beeclicliff, that has been going to ruin 
ever since old Commodore Oaten died, and now it has been 
transformed into a perfect Eden by Ida Chaloner’s money.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Gresham, quietly: “ and, my son, we are 
enjoying it as much as she can do.” 

“ I don’t know about that,” said Jamie, doubtfully. 

“ And ” — went on Angie, feverishly anxious to get the floor 
again — there’s a long glass grapery, with grapes nearly ripe 
now — great clusters of white Frontignacs and black Ham- 
burgs; and the flowers — oh! they are scattered wherever you 
look! I saw the croquet lawn, as smooth as a floor covered 
with green velvet, and Jamie said there was a billiard-room 
upstairs. I wish you could see Ida’s own rooms, mamma — 
three of them. How do you suppose she occupies three rooms 


192 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


at once? That’s what I asked Mrs. Hyde, and she told me 
they were bedroom, sitting-room, and dressing-room.” 

‘‘ Mrs. Hyde thought Angie never would leave off asking 
questions,” laughed Jamie, good-humoredly. 

“ I’m sure she thought me an ignorant little country girl; 
but, mamma, that’s just what I am,” admitted Angie, 
frankly. 

“ But you haven’t told us yet when Ida is coming to inhabit 
this fairy realm of your description,” said Mrs. Gresham. 

‘‘ Mrs. Hyde don’t know herself. Not until a week, she 
says, in any event. But the house is all ready. ” 

“ There are some very fine horses in the stables, sir,” said 
Jamie. “ One Arabian saddle horse, for Ida’s own use, was 
brought from Paris.” 

“ Do you suppose, my son, he will carry her any safer than 
your old Meg Merrilies jogs along with you?” pleasantly asked 
Mr. Gresham, detecting the subdued accent of discontent in 
his son’s voice. 

Of course he won’t,” said Angie, decidedly. ‘‘ But he is 
such a pretty creature, with great, soft eyes, like a gazelle’s. 
And there are nine different sorts of carriages — high carriages, 
low carriages, and close coaches, and open phaetons, and one 
dear little low basket affair that Ida drives herself in. I dare 
say I shall have many a ride in that basket-carriage. ” 

“ If Mrs. Delamere chooses to take sufficient notice of little 
Angeline Gresham!” said Jamie, dryly. 

“ Jamie,” cried Angie, turning round, her fair cheek dyed 
red, ‘‘ as if I didn’t know Ida better than that!” 

You have not seen her for seven years?” 

If it were seventeen vears it wouldn’t make any difference 
in Ida.” 

‘‘Angie is right,” said Mr. Gresham. “Come, Jamie, I 
left the cauliflower plants for you to water — it’s time they 
were attended to!” 

Cauliflower plants! Jamie Gresham thought of the gentle- 
manly gardener at Beechcliff, with his three underlings, with 
a mental sigh; but he was a brave fellow, and he went whistling 
off to draw the water for the thirsty plants. 

“ You are to go to-morrow, mamma,” said Angie, pulling 
the dog’s big, flapping ears, “ you and papa.- Mrs. Hyde says 
the carriage will be at the ten-o’clock train, and she particu- 
larly wishes you to see to the arrangements she has made about 
the house.” 

“ Mrs. Hyde is no doubt a very sensible woman,” said Mrs. 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


193 


Gresham^ rather gratified at being thus personally appealed to. 
‘‘ I should like to go very much. 

“ Papa/^ said Angie, “ what do you say?^^ 

“ That generally I doiiT care much for these grand houses, 
daughter,^ ^ answered the clergyman, placidly, “ but that I 
have considerable interest in the gilded cage which is to belong 
to my little wild-bird Ida. Yes, Selina, we will go!^^ 

The Eector of Deepdale was as much pleased, in his quiet 
way, with the new arrangements at Beechclili as his enthusi- 
astic young daughter had been. 

It was not only a majestic old mansion, overlooking the 
blue, serene windings of the Connecticut Eiver, but it was a 
domain enriched by the choicest inspirations of landscape gar- 
dening. The grand elms and beeches whose green plumy 
branches overshadowed the lawn, had been left undisturbed — 
the tiny cascades, leaping down the wooded clitfs, had been 
spanned by rustic bridges which partook of the wild nature of 
the scenery around them, and in every cool, shady nook, 
where you felt inclined to stop and survey the richness of the 
June landscape, there was a seat of intertwined wood- work, or 
slender iron, as if placed there expressly for your convenience 
at the special moment. The shy, dappled deer, grazing on 
the velvet slopes that extended up to the green walls of wood- 
land, eyed the good clergyman frcm behind the almost invisi- 
ble net-work of wire that separated their domains from the 
pleasure grounds — a peacock, purple-crested and gorgeous, 
was spreading his Argus-eyed train on the marble balustrade 
of the wall that ran in front of the portico steps, and a cluster 
of white marble sea nymphs, standing with clasped arms in 
the center of the green lawn, were merely hidden by the 
spray-like twinkle of the diamond drops which fell in musical 
rain from the inverted chalices held high above their heads 
into a shallow marble basin, whose rim was hidden by the 
glossy leaves and purple blossoms — clusters of the tropical- 
looking hydrangea. Mr. Gresham drew a long breath. 

“ There is a use in the bea* tiful,^-’ he said, looking mildly 
around on the scene of sylvan beauty. Yes, yes, Jamie was 
right when he thought money could accomplish marvels. And 
that striped awning which I can just see through the tops of 
the trees down by the river edge, I suppose belongs to the 
boat - house. There^s something Venetian about that, my 
dear!^^ 

“ Yes, to be sure,^-’ said Mrs. Gresham, not thinking about 
the awning, but intent on the purple blossoms of the hy- 
drangeas which she was comparing, mentally, to a stunted 


194 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


specimen she had at home in a green-painted tub, which had 
once held butter. “ 1 am sure nobody can take more pains 
with a hydrangea than I have done with mine, but just look 
at the difference 

‘‘ Suppose we go in and inspect the library, my dear,^^ said 
Mr. Gresham. “ Ida used not to care much about books, but 
she shows very good taste in being aware that a well-furnished 
library is quite as necessary to a house as a well-furnished din- 
ing-room; Jamie tells me there are some very fine English 
editions of the standard authors, and several portfolios of the 
very choicest proof engravings. 

‘‘ Yes, of course,^^ said Mrs. Gresham; and while you are 
looking at the books, 1^11 just see how Mrs. Hyde has man- 
aged with the china-closets and linen-room. 

Mr. Gresham, stumbling through the wide hall, in his blind, 
near-sighted way, after his wife had left him to pursue her 
own investigation, came face to face with a tall, softly step- 
ping personage in black. He stepped aside with a bow. It 
might be the gentleman from Boston, who had charged so 
enormous a price for planning the landscape effects of the 
grounds, or it might be the New York architect, come to take 
a last look at the improvements that were finally complete. 
Mr. Gresham knew neither.^of these persons; but as he stood 
opposite the door-wa}^ where a flood of western light poured 
upon the strongly marked features of the stranger, it seemed 
to him that he did know this man. 

‘‘ Why, it can^t be possible! yes, it can,^^ he said, growing 
more bewildered and more certain every moment. “ It^s that 
Italian fellow — the murder at the Hollisforde Hotel, twelve or 
thirteen years ago — it’s Giuseppe!” 

Giuseppe it was, who was now bowing low. 

I hope I see Mr. Gresham well,” he said, in accents that 
bore the unmistakable ^tamp of foreign birth. 

‘‘Yes, thank you; quite well,” stammered Mr. Gresham. 
“But how on earth did you come here?” 

“ 1 have the honor to be in Mrs. Helamere’s service at pres- 
ent, sir. I officiated as her courier while she was abroad, and 
I am now here superintending the last preparations for her 
arrival. In what can I be of use to monsieur?” 

“ Nothing, thanks; I was only going to tlie library!” 

“ The library is to the left, sir,” and, officiously preceding 
Mr. Gresham, Giuseppe threw open the arched door and 
stepped back with a bow. 

“A very polite person,” thought the* good clergyman, a 
little uneasily, as he fitted on his spectacles, “ but a most dis- 


IDA CHALOKEK^S HEAKT. 


195 


agreeable face, if one were to judge solely by externals. A 
sort of major-domo, 1 suppose; no doubt a useful appendage 
to such a large establishment as this; but I can^t say I admire 
Ida’s taste in servants.” 

(Squire Denholm’s lumber wagon did 'not happen to he at 
the depot this time, and so the Eeverend Mr. Gresham and 
his wife had to walk the weary distance iDetween Deepdale 
Station and the rectory; consequently it was nearly dusk be- 
fore they reached their quiet little home. 

Angie has got company,” said Mrs. Gresham, as, at the 
foot of the garden, she looked up and saw the uncertain glim- 
mer of a white dress in the door- way beside Angie’s pink cam- 
bric. I dare say Minnie Waller has come to pass the evening 
with her.” 

‘‘Yes,” said the rector; “but it is too damp for them 
now. The evening air blows cool. Children,” he cried, rais- 
ing his voice to reach their ears, “it is getting too late to sit 
out there.” 

“ Only five minutes longer, Mr. Gresham,” pleaded a soft 
voice in the well-known formula of answer so familiar yeai'S 
ago. 

The rector came to a dead' stand-still, and fumbled nervously 
for his spectacle-case, Mrs. Gresham gave a little shriek, and 
sprung forward. 

“ Father, don’t you know the voice? — it’s our Ida!” 

And the next instant, before the good clergyman knew 
whether he was awake or dreaming, the clinging arms were 
around his neck as of old. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Gresham, trying to swallow the lump that 
would keep rising in his throat, “ it’s our Ida. I should know 
that squeeze round my throat anywhere. God bless 3 ^ou, 
child! and God be thanked for bringing you safe back to us!” 

And then the rector wiped his eyes, thankful for the friend- 
ly dusk that hid his features. 

“ Let us have the caudles lighted,” said Mrs. Gresham; 
“ and then we can look at the child’s face.” 

For Ida was a child to them, now, just as she had always 
been. 

“ I am not going to Beechcliff to-night,” said Ida, when 
she had been kissed, and questioned, and hugged over and 
over again. “ [ am going to sleep upstairs in the little bed- 
room, with Angie; it will seem like old times again.” 

Old times! As if they could ever return in their first fresh- 
ness! 


196 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

PLAYING CROQUET. 

The old stone mansion at Beechcliff was full of company 
all those lovely summer months. The croquet lawn glittered 
with bright dresses; the wide old halls and staircases echoed to 
the sound of gay voices, and the sober, steady-going old deni- 
zens of Deepdale opened their eyes wide at the stories of the 
city people, and their splendid fashion of doing things, which 
were extant through the neighborhood. This sort of life was 
that which best suited Mrs. Delamere. She liked society; she 
delighted in surrounding herself with an atmosphere of con- 
genial gayety and brightness. She herself was the blithest 
spirit, the sunniest and most merry of the party; and, to see 
her in the bright domain of her own home, no one would ever 
have suspected the existence of the one dark shadow of her life 
— the Nemesis that brooded continually at her hearth-stone, 
poisoning her gayer hours, and lurking like a dark, bitter drop 
in the sparkling chalice of her daily life, in the shape of 
Giuseppe Antonardi. 

Yet the old housekeeper at Beechclilf thought that Mr. 
Giuseppe was certainly the most useful attendant, the most 
gentlemanly person that ever condescended to read the news- 
paper in her special sitting-room, and to entertain her with his 
amusing and instructive conversation. And then, too, he was 
so considerate of the other servants — so little disposed to take 
advantage of his position as Mrs. Delamere^s confidential 
major-domo and chief adviser in charge of the household. If 
Mrs. Hyde had been ten years younger she certainly would 
have lost her heart to Mr. Giuseppe. As it was, she mingled 
her admiration with a spice of semi-maternal kindness, which 
took a definite shape in hot cups of cofiee at all sorts of un- 
natural hours, the easiest chair in the sanctum she called her 
own, and the choicest morsels at table. 

“ Mr. Giuseppe has seen better days,^^ she would tell the 
other servants, reprovingly, when any of them, driven to des- 
perate measures by her glaring partiality, would venture to 
utter a remonstrance. “He is not an ordinary lackey. I 
doiiT assert the fact for certain — I have no authority to do so 
— but it is my private opinion that Mr. Giuseppe is an exiled 
Italian noblemaii, banished from his country for noble repub- 
lican opinions, and compelled to seek an honest livelihood in a 
way little suited to the manner of his birth. 


IDA CHALONER'S heart. 


197 


“ Fudge observed Perkins^ tlie coachman. A noble- 
man , indeed ! 1 guess I am just about as much of a nobleman as 
he is! But these foreign fellows always turn the women^s 
heads. 

It was a bright evening in July, just after sunset, and the 
company at Beechclitf, with one or two exceptions, was assem- 
bled on the croquet-ground. This Beechclifi croquet ground 
was, in its way, the prettiest spot in all the domains — a 
smooth lawn, kept like shorn velvet by the scythe and roller, 
the western or lower end walled in by a dense hedge of laurel, 
the eastern bounded by a high, sloping terrace, divided in the 
center by a flight of half a dozen marble steps, crowned on 
either side by shallow marble urns or vases, from which fell 
long, swinging trails of ivy and periwinkle, and white and 
purple masses of blossoming petunias. On the other two sides, 
trees and shrubbery formed natural partitions, so that the 
croquet players at Beechcliff found themselves, as it were, in a 
cup or dell of greenery and brightness. At this hour, with the 
gold of the summer evening yet filling all the west where the 
sun had just gone down, and the atmosphere, heavy with the 
fragrance wafted from the neighboring rose-gardens and flower 
parterres^ it seemed like a picture by Watteau; the guests 
scattered here and there, some playing with real excitement 
and genuine interest in the game, others using ball and mal- 
let, as a cover for sly flirtations or open badinage, the bright 
fluttering of diaphanous summer dresses, the glitter of jewels, 
and the glow of ribbons, the chime of voices and laughter, and 
the click of the painted spheres of wood, one against the other, 
while the hostess, sitting on a chair of light iron- work, painted 
to imitate mossy branches of twisted wood, near the foot of the 
terrace steps, looked on, smiling and amused at the festive 
scene which surrounded her. 

Ida Delamere, at twenty- three, was different from the Ida 
Delamere of sixteen — yet essentially the same. She had been 
a rosebud then, — she was a T][ueenly rose, in its fullest, most 
royal blossoming now. Her skin, smooth and pink- tin ted as 
a waxen japonica, 3 ^et retained the dazzling bloom and fine- 
grained freshness of early youth; her hair, no longer hanging 
in loose masses of ebon curls over her shoulders, was coiled in 
a heavy purple black rope round tli^ back of her head, and 
confined there with a coral comb, sweeping away from her low, 
broad forehead in a ri23pling line; but the soft, languid eyes, 
with their heavy lids and long, curled lashes, and the full, 
strawberry-red lips, were' the same as seven years ago. Ida 
had not changed — she had only matured. There was a 


198 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


picturesque, unconscious grace in her attitude, as she sat there 
in a white grenadine dress, whose full, glistening folds lay 
round her on the grass, like fleecy ridges of vapor, and a scarf 
of the same material, bordered with narrow threads of gold- 
colored velvet, and a gold fringe was drawn loosely around her 
shoulders. Evidently she retained her old taste for color and 
sparkle, for long drops of coral were pendant from her deli- 
cate ears, and her Valenciennes collar was fastened by a coral 
brooch of exquisite tint and workmanship, while her slender 
wrists were encircled by coral serpents with glittering diamond 
eyes. A bouquet of pale-green mignonette was fastened in 
her belt, diffusing a faint breatli of fragrance every time she 
turned or moved, and one hand, loaded with rich rings, whose 
glimmer made tiny party-colored rainbows with the restless 
play of the slender Angers, was touching the fair hair of Angie 
Gresham, who sat on the grass at her feet. 

Angie looked very sweet and girlish in her plain blue mus- 
lin dress, without an ornament except the agate brooch which 
had been her mother’s a quarter of a century ago, and the 
blue ribbon which knotted back her bright flaxen hair. For 
Angie was only a country rector’s daughter, and was necessi- 
tated to do and dress accordingly, and Mrs. Gresham had very 
sensibly negatived the wishes of Ida to load Angie with dresses 
and jewels such as she herself wore. 

‘‘No,” Mrs. Gresham had said, with that resolute little 
shake of the head, from which Ida, taught by old experience, 
knew that there was no appeal. “I’ve no objection to Angie’s 
staying at Beechcliff a little, now and then; it will be a pleas- 
ant change for the child, and she sees very little society here; 
but she must stay as plain Angie Gresham, not as a doll for 
you to dress up and play with. Now, don’t look grieved, Ida; 
your own common sense must tell you that I am right It 
can’t last forever; she is not the lady of Beechcliff, with half 
a million of dollars at her disposal, and it would be cruel kind- 
ness to turn her head just for these few weeks of gayety and 
pleasure. She may stay with you as much as you please, but 
she must never forget that she is Angie Gresham.” 

And to these terms, ruthlessly dictated by the wise little 
monarch-regnant of Deepdale Bectory, Ida was compelled to 
submit. * 

To Angie, however, it made little difference whether it was 
blue muslin or priceless brocade that she wore. Youth, 
health, and freshness were quite sufficient accessories; and to 
Angie it seemed that the life she was leading now, with its 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 199 

happy indifference to expense, its constant change and variety, 
was a glimpse out of Eden. 

She was leaning her head against Ida^s knee, idly tapping 
the grass with the handle of her mallet, and looking straight 
into Mrs. Delamere^s eyes just at that instant. 

“ No, Ida,^^ she said, gravely, “ it is not a fancy. You are 
not quite happy. 

‘‘ Who among us is, child?^^ said Ida, laughing. Where 
would be the use of a heaven if earth hadn’t its shadows?” 

“ But your earth, Ida — what shadows can it have?” 

“ The roc’s egg,” said Ida, listlessly. Don’t you remem- 
ber in the fairy story, Angie, that Eastern damsel who, in the 
midst of all her splendors, couldn’t be contented without a 
roc’s egg to hang from the dome of her palace roof. You 
don’t know, child, what a tremendous shadow it can cast! — 
not the roc’s egg, but its absence.” 

“ But that is all nonsense, Ida.” 

“ Is it? Now, I flattered myself I was talking remarkably 
good sense!” 

Angie softly imprisoned Ida’s hand in hers and patted it as 
she talked. 

It would have been so different if Eex had lived. Would 
you have been happier then, Ida?” 

‘‘ Happier when?” Ida had been watching a brilliant car- 
om run made by Miss Victoria Lyndhurst, a New York 
belle, and had lost Angie’s words. ‘‘Two arches and the 
stake — that was capital!” 

“ I mean, Ida, happier, if Eex had lived!” 

“ If!” repeated Ida, impatiently. “ Oh, Angie, who can 
tell? Where is the use of questioning ourselves about what 
isn’t, and can’t be?” 

For Ida dared not tell this pale, single-hearted young girl 
that she had been happier far as Eex’s widow than she had 
ever been as his wife! 

“ Are you vexed with me, Ida?” penitently asked Angie. 

“No, little goose, I’m not.” 

“ And you’re sure you are quite, quite happy?” 

'“Yes, quite. There, Angie, they’re calling for you — it’s 
your turn!” 

And, amid a universal cry of “ Orange! where’s Orange?” 
♦Angie Gresham went forward with her orange-striped mallet 
.carelessly poised in her left hand. 

“Come, Miss Gresham,” said Waverley Cleve, who was 
captain of the side on which Angie was enlisted, “ we want 


200 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


some brilliant playing to redeem our luck after the run Miss 
Lyndhurst has just made!^^ 

‘‘ But 1 am such a wretched player!^’ said Angie, glancing 
apprehensively at Miss Lyndhurst, who, flushed and triumph- 
ant from her success, stood opposite, tapping the toe of her 
French slipper with the end of her mallet. 

Miss Lyndhurst was a bold -looking, handsome girl, with 
red-gold hair, reddish-hazel eyes, and a great deal of color — 
whether artificial or real people differed in opinion — and her 
dress of embroidered India muslin, relieved by a broad fringed 
sash of violet silk, was splendid and expensive in the highest 
degree. 

‘‘ It isn’t always play; it’s partly luck,” said Mr. Cleve. 

Come, Miss Gresham, do your best!” 

“ Aim a little more to the left,” suggested Captain Gracie, 
a flaxen-haired young son of Mars, who was “ on leave ” from 
somewhere on the confines of Nevada, and was a guest at 
Beechcliff with his sister, Mrs. Henley Forsyth. 

A trifle squarer with the mallet,” cried Mr. Forsyth, 
kneeling on one knee to adjust Angie’s ball. “ There, that’s 
better. Don’t be nervous now. Miss Angie.” 

Miss Lyndhurst colored, and her red-brown eyes took a red- 
der sparkle. She liked to be queen in her circle, wherever it 
was, and Angie Gresham was attracting altogether too much 
attention to be agreeable to her. 

Perhaps, Captain Gracie, you will kindly allow Miss 
Gresham to play, unless you mean the game to last until mid- 
night. There is no moon, and we can hardly expect Mrs. 
Delamere to illuminate the croquet ground for our behalf!” 

Croquet by starlight isn’t bad if you have the right kind 
of partner,” said Mr. Cleve, with an admiring glance at 
Angie, which was gall and wormwood to the New York belle. 

“ There are a lot of colored Chinese lanterns about the 
house somewhere,” said Ida. I dare say, if Victoria wishes, 
we could illuminate the ground very prettily.” 

Dear Mrs. Delamere,” cried Victoria, turning with her 
sweetest smile, “ living at Beechcliff is like being the possessor 
of Aladdin’s lamp. There’s absolutely nothing which you can 
not do!” 

Ida elevated her eyebrows slightly. Miss Lyndhurst was 
almost too demonstrative to suit her taste; and in the same 
instant Angie struck the orange-banded ball. It followed the 
line of Miss Lyndhurst’s, passing under two arches, and roll- 
ing up close to the black-striped ball which belonged to the 
New York beauty. 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEAET. 


201 


‘‘ Capital!’^ ejaculated Mr. Cleve. “ Miss Lyndhurst is at 
your powei% Miss Gresham! Better, even, than 1 expected! 
Croquet her off the ground at once— she’s a dangerous op- 
ponent!” 

Angie advanced with brightened eyes and heightening color 
to take the advantage she believed herself to have gained; but 
Miss Lyndhurst stepped forward with curious promptitude. 

“ Stop, if you please. Miss Gresham,” she said, even while 
Angie’s foot was on the ball; that wasn’t a croquet!” 

“ Not a croquet!” cried Captain Gracie. ‘‘ By the ‘ New- 
port Manual,’ and Captain Mayne Reid’s method, but it ivas /” 

‘‘ 1 think it was,” said Angie, timidly. 

It was not,” repeated Victoria, with calm insolence. 

But I heard the click,” interposed Mr. Forsyth. 

Of course,” said Victoria, bitterly, “ the gentlemen will 
all swear that Miss Gresham is right — she seems to be a very 
popular personage here;” these last words spoken with a bit- 
terness whose edge was not taken off by the little rippling 
‘‘ society ” laugh that followed them. “ But as 1 happen to 
be in full possession of my senses, I don’t like to doubt their 
evidence!” 

How is it, Mr. Lyndhurst?” demanded Cleve, flushed and 
eager, of the umpire; “ is the croquet ruled out?” 

Mr. Lyndhurst, uncle to the fair Victoria, and not a little 
in awe of her, looked puzzled. 

‘‘ What does the captain of the other side say?” 

Mr. Carisforde, a Bridgeport banker, pulled his mustache 
reflectively. As captain of Miss Lynd hurst’s party, he felt 
himself bound to support her side, and yet he actually believed 
Angie to be right. 

I leave it entirely to the umpire,” he said, that being the 
simplest way out of the perplexity which presented itself to 
him. 

Well — I don’t know — it’s a mooted question,” hesitated 
the umpire. You’re quite sure about it, Victoria?” 

There isn’t the shadow of a doubt on the subject, uncle!” 

I heard the click myself!” persisted Mr. Forsyth. 

‘‘ I’m quite sure the balls hit!” interposed Angie, forget- 
ting her timidity in the interest of the point. 

“ And I’m quite sure they didn’t,” said Miss Lyndhurst, 
sharply. I played croquet all last season at Newport, and I 
think I ought to know!” 

It isn’t a question of experience,” said Captain Gracie, 

it’s a matter of plain truth and common sense. Mrs. Dela- 


202 


IDA CHALOHER’S heart. 


mere, you were looking on all the time — you ought to know. 
Why don^t you volunteer an opinion?"^ 

“ Nobody has asked me yet/^ said Ida, laughing. ‘'Yes; 
of course 1 saw it all!^^ 

“ And what do you say?^^ asked Mrs. Forsyth, who was a 
pretty young bride in a lavender silk walking suit, and very 
big blue eyes, like painted china. 

“ Yes!^^ cried Victoria, smiling her prettiest smile at the 
hostess; “ Fll be content to abide by what Mrs. Delamere 
says.-"^ 

“ The balls did hit,^’ said Ida, quietly. “ I as well as Mrs. 
Forsyth heard the click. Angie is entitled to her croquet!’^ 

Miss Lyndhurst drew back, biting her lips, while the hazel 
eyes grew almost lurid in the suppressed light. Angie noted 
her look. 

“ But ITl waive the privilege, if Miss Lyndhurst wishes, 
she said, innocently, anxious to avert the coming storm. 

“ I beg your pardon/^ said Victoria, in cold, constrained 
accents. “On no account will 1 allow any such quixotic 
courtesy. Go on — let the game go on!^"^ 

“ Certainly — by all means, said Captain Gracie. “ I don’t 
see why Miss Gresham should concede anything to the op- 
posite party 

Thus adjudged, Angie placed her ball beside that of Miss 
Lyndhurst, and put her slender foot on it — but she was nerv- 
ous and excited, and her stroke was uncertain and misdirect- 
ed. Victoria’s ball rolled but a few feet off, and then came 
to a stand-still. 

“ There!” ejaculated Miss Lyndhurst, contemptuously, 
“ you haven’t gained such an advantage, after all!’^ 

“I am glad of it, ” said Angie, impulsively. “I didn’t 
want to take the croquet, but Mrs. Forsyth insisted.” 

“ What magnanimity I” sneered Miss Lyndhurst. “ It’s a 
pity you allowed yourself to strike the ball at all!” 

Mr. Carisforde’s turn came next, and in the excitement of 
the evenly contested game, the little altercation between the 
rector’s daughter and the New York belle was forgotten by 
all save one — Victoria Lyndhurst herself. 

When the game was over, she stood chatting with Mrs. For- 
syth, her pretty Spanish hat, with its fall of snowy lace droop- 
ing over her forehead, but she was not looking at the bride — 
she was covertly watching Waverley Cleve who, with Angie 
Gresham on his arm, was slowly taking his way in the direc- 
tion of the rose gardens. 

Waverley Cleve was a good-looking man — more than this, 


IDA CHALOHEli's HEART. 


203 


he was a rich man, and a rising man in the world of politics. 
Victoria Lyndhurst had had her eye upon him for the last two 
years, and she had plotted and maneuvered to secure an invita- 
tion to Beechcliff because Mr. Oleve was to spend the month 
of August in its cool shades. 

In a country house I can easily secure him,^^ thought the 
experienced young lady of half a dozen metropolitan seasons. 

But either the fish was shy, and would not rise to the bait, 
or Victoria had lost somewhat of her old skill in angling. 
Mr. Waverley Oleve fiirted with her, rowed her on long boat- 
ing excursions, played croquet, and practiced duets with all 
the docility and good humor in the world, but like the young 
man of the comic song, “ he didn^t propose. 

“I see it now,^^ thought Victoria, the lids half closed over 
the reddish-hazel eyes, as she stood apparently listening to 
Mrs. Henley Forsythes description of the full-dress masquerade 
she had attended the week of her bridal, but in reality hear- 
ing not one word of it. “ What a fool I have been not to 
understand it before — but I gave the man credit for having 
more common sense than to get entangled in the meshes of a 
little milk-and-water idiot like that tow-headed girl yonder. 
But I ought to have known that men are fools — of course she 
has made love to him, and he can^t resist the temptation of a 
little flirtation when it comes directly in his way. Before she 
came to Beechclifi, I was his chosen companion — now I am 
neglected — thrown aside — left to find an escort for myself, 
and all for her sake! Well, n’importe ; I believe 1 can afford 
to risk an even battle — let the country girl look out for her- 
self. She shall find that it is not exactly a nice thing to cross 
Victoria LyndhursFs path. Yes,^^ she said, turning with a 
smile to Mrs. Forsyth, as that lady paused in her recital: 
“ how nice it must have been! I do so delight in hals ?nas- 
qtierades,’^ 

Nor were Victorians the only eyes which were on Angie as 
she sauntered through the wire gate- way which led to the rose 
gardens. Ida, from her position in the midst of a group of 
her guests, saw who the girFs companion was, and smiled to 
herself. 

“ Well, let them go,^^ she thought. ‘‘ I have suspected this 
growing fancy for some time. He is worthy of her, and she — 
it needs no second sight to see that she is fast falling under 
the enchantment of ‘ lovers young dream!’ Poor little Angie! 
I wonder how it seems to be really in love!” 

Angie Gresham looked guiltily at the clock, as she entered 
the drawing-room that night. 


204 


IDA OHALOKER^S HEART. 


‘‘ Past nine/^ she thought. Who could have imagined it 
was so late? But they are all so busy talking over the garden- 
party that nobody saw me come in; that^s one comfort.’’ 

'Nobody saw her come ini Poor, unsophisticated Angie! 
as. if a dozen pairs of eyes had not marked her entrance; first 
and keenest of which were the red-brown orbs of Victoria 
Lyndhurst, who was sitting in one of the bay-windows amus- 
ing herself by trying to flirt with Mr. Carisforde, who didn’t 
understand the most elementary principles of that innocent 
little diversion. 

“ He’s a dolt/’ thought Victoria, “ but he’s better than no 
one. ” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

MR. DUDLEV’S FRIEND. 

When is Mr. Dudley coming?” asked Miss Victoria 
Lyndhurst of her hostess, as the ladies all sat in a certain 
large room, whose French casements opened on the lawn. All 
the ladies, and some of the gentlemen, for, as it was a rainy 
day, the others were dispersed in library, billiard-room and 
music -room, amusing themselves in a masculine manner. 
Miss Lyndhurst was embroidering on Java canvas; Angie 
Gresham was hemming a set of pocket-handkerchiefs for her 
father, and Mrs. Delaniere, after her own indolent fashion, 
was reclining on a low sofa, looking very pretty, and doing 
nothing at all. 

‘‘ Mr. Dudley?” said Ida, looking up from some sort of 
day-dream she was indulging in, semi-unconscious of the merry 
medley of voices aroinid her. 

“ Yes; I do hope he will be here for our garden-party.” 

“ I suppose he is coming to-day.” 

To-day? Oh, that will be charming! He is the very 
companion for a rainy day in the country. When may we ex- 
pect him?” 

“ 1 forget — if I ever knew,” said Ida, laughing. ‘‘ I gave 
his note to Giuseppe, and that is the end of it, so far as I am 
concerned. Giuseppe will see that it is all right.” 

“ What a treasure that Italian courier of yours must be!” 
said Mrs. Forsyth. “ He seems to assume every responsi- 
bility and see to everything. ” 

“ Yes,” said Ida. But she did not apparently care to pur- 
sue the subject. 

“ Where did you come across him?” asked Miss Lynilhurst. 

In Paris,” briefly answered Mrs. Delamere. 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


205 


“When you were living there, directly after your mar- 
riage? Why, I thought he told my husband he had known 
you from a child. 

“ So he has,’^ said Ida, vexed at feeling the hot blood glow 
to her forehead. “ He was a servant in my nucleus service 
when I was a child. 

“ Your uncle, dear Mrs. Delamere?^^ echoed Mrs. For- 
syth, who had rather a genius for asking questions. “ I 
thought you had no relations living.''^ 

“ 1 have none. My uncle has long been dead.^^ 

“ What a loss that must have been!^^ 

“No loss at all,^^ said Ida, indifferently, as she rose and 
walked across the floor to the open piano, and slowly struck a 
few chords. “ I cared very little for my uncle, and I believe 
he cared still less for me. Affection does not always run in 
the channels prescribed by blood, 1 believe. 

Mrs. Forsyth, apparently not yet satisfled with the informa- 
tion she had gained, was just opening her pretty, inexpressive 
mouth for another question, when the door was thrown softly 
open by Giuseppe himself. 

“ Will madame please to receive Mr. Dudley? He arrived 
by the eight-forty train, and has just been breakfasting."^ 

And, as Giuseppe bowed himself out of the room, Mr. Dud- 
ley entered it, a handsome, bright-looking man, of some two- 
or three-and-thirty, one of those easy, pleasant, conversational 
persons, who are sought for in every circle and seem to as- 
similate everywhere. 

“ Permit me to make my bow,"" he said, lightly, “ and at 
the same time apologize for my neglect in postponing it for so 
long. But before breakfast 1 should not have had the audacity 
to present myself before so many beauties at once."" 

Mr. Dudley was at home immediately with all in the room, 
and had a pleasant word or an arch challenge of defiance for 
each and every one of them. 

“ But you have not told me yet why you did not keep your 
word, and come last week instead of this,"" said Mrs. Dela- 
mere, when, after making the circuit of the apartment, Mr. 
Dudley at length settled down on a chair close to the sofa. 

“ Have I had a chance?"" demanded Mr. Dudley, with an 
injured countenance. “Or can you for a moment imagine 
that any but the best of reasons would keep me away from 
Beechcliff? By the way, while I think of it, let me congratu- 
late you on your cook. 1 never in my life tasted such an 
omelet as was placed before me this morning, and as for the 
coffee, I assure you, upon my honor, it was as good as Del- 


206 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAET. 


monico^s! And that tall, foreign-voiced servant who waited 
on me— Giuseppe, I think they call him — he is the prince of 
serving- men 

Giuseppe is very attentive/^ said Ida, quietly. I brought 
him with me from the Continent. 

“ One of your late husbaud^s servants?’^ 

‘‘ Ida bit her lips; would people never leave off ask- 

ing questions about Giuseppe? “ But I doii^t see, Mr. Dud- 
ley, what this has to do with your reason?^’ 

‘‘ A very gentle hint to me to mind my own business.^" Ida 
could not but smile here at the correctness of his conjecture, 
though she made a slight disclaiming motion of her hand. 
“ Well, but I really had a reason, and that reason is — a 
friend!’^ 

‘^Afriend?^^ 

The unexpected arrival of a friend from Scotland, the 
adopted son, or nephew, or something, of old Admiral Tyn- 
dale, of Glenholme. They were very attentive to me last year, 
when I was in Scotland; and the admiral is the soul of old- 
time hospitality; and as this gentleman is to be in America 
but a few weeks, I feel it to be my duty to devote myself en- 
tirely to his society. Nor will it be an irksome duty; he is a 
splendid fellow! And now you know my reasons for proving 
recreant to the marching orders I had received from Beech- 
cliff, and my apologies for the necessity which I am under for 
returning to town to-morrow morning 

‘‘ To-morrow morning!’’ was echoed in tones of deprecation 
and regret from various parts of the room; while Mrs. Dela- 
mere’s voice, sounding soft and distinct through them all, 
asked : 

Is he pleasant, this Mr. Tyndale?” 

‘‘I beg your pardon — Dorrillon,” corrected Mr. Dudle}^ 
who was whimsically busy in disentangling the knots his rest- 
less fingers had been tying in Miss Lyndhurst’s zephyr wool. 
‘‘ Frederic Dorrillon? I should rather say so! The pleasant- 
est fellow in the world !” 

‘‘ Then,” suggested Ida, laughing, “ I can suggest a very 
simple road out of this labyrinth of perplexities and cross-pur- 
poses. You are to come to Beechcliff and bring your friend 
with you.’^ 

May I?’^ in a tone of pleased animation. 

‘‘ Haven’t I just said it?” 

“ Then I shall go back by the evening train, and lose no 
time in taking advantage of your hospitality,” exclaimed Mr. 
Dudley. “Seriously speaking, though, Mrs. Delamere, it 


IDA CHALOKEE’S heart. 


207 


would give me great pleasure to open to my Scottish friend 
just such a glimpse of American country life' as this. 1 wish 
his impressions of our western continent to be as favorable as 
possible. 

And we will all do our best to captivate him, if you will 
bring him herel^^ exclaimed Victoria Lyndhurst, clapping her 
hands. 

“ Take care!^^ cried Mr. Dudley. Do you threaten 
chaiiis?^^ 

‘‘ Yes; but the chains shall be of gold, and light as gossa- 
mer, answered Victoria. 

‘‘1 shall be sure to warn him beforehand,^'’ said Dudley, 
shaking his head solemnly. ‘‘ It^s all well enough ^pr a des- 
perate old bachelor like myself; but a sensitive young for- 
eigner — 

He is young, then?^’ questioned Victoria. 

‘^Yes, and good-looking — just what you ladies would call 
‘ splendid!^ 

‘‘ And what is it we ladies would call ‘ splendid?’ ” de- 
manded Miss Lyndhurst. “ Come, I insist upon the details!” 

‘‘Well, he is very tall, and he is very dark, with a beard 
and mustache like floss silk.” 

“ Black?” 

“ Yes; or so dark a brown that one would call them black; 
a bronzed complexion, and a pensive, piratical sort of air.” 

“ Piratical!” repeated Mrs. Forsyth, with a little scream. 

“ Yes, like the Corsair, you know, or Edgar di Lammer- 
moor, or Kochester in ‘ Jane Eyre;’ — the sort of thing that 
goes down with women — grand, gloomy, and peculiai^! Very 
accomplished, too; speaks all sorts of languages, and is par- 
ticularly good company. Oh,” added Mr. Dudley, with an- 
other shake of the head, “ it’s very disinterested of me to 
bring him here — he’ll cut me out with everybody in the 
room!” 

“ At all events we shall give him the chance,” said Mrs. 
Delamere. “ When may we expect you both down here as 
regular sojourners?” 

“ Some time this '^eek; that is, if he will consent to make 
a visit where he is unacquainted.” 

“ But you must insist that he consent!” 

“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Delamere; and in the meantime who 
will join me in a game of billiards until time for the evening 
train?” 

There was no lack of answers to this challenge, and present- 


208 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


ly Mr. Dudley was engaged in a brisk game in. the billiard- 
rooni;, which was on another story. 

‘‘Miss Lyndhurst!’^ he cried, suddenly, “where are you 
going? Your turn is after mine.^^ 

“ Excuse me just one moment/^ said Victoria, hurriedly. 
“ I have dropped an ear-ring on the stairs, I think 

“ Allow me to go and look for it,^^ said Captain Gracie, 
promptly advancing. 

“ Oh, no, not by any means. I’m pretty sure where 1 
dropped it. I will not be an instant. ’ ’ 

“ Humph!” mused Dudley, as he went on with his play. 
“ I saw her slip her ear-ring into her pocket half a minute ago, 
just after^Waverley Cleve passed the door with that pretty girl 
in blue. It’s Waverley Cleve she’s going to look after, not 
the ear-ring. So she hasn’t got over that infatuation about 
Waverley Cleve yet? Well, it’s no business of mine!” 

Mr. Dudley’s legal mind had drawn the correct inferences. 
Miss Lyndhurst had gone to look after Waverley Cleve. 

Crossing the wide, empty hall, with a step as light as that 
of a she-panther, Victoria Lyndhurst slowly entered the nar- 
row corridor, which communicated with the side entrance to 
the conservatory, and standing quite still just within the 
tropical forest of plants, ferns, and blossoming vines which 
filled the glazed inclosure, she listened, the light in her eyes 
glowing as a coal -fire glows in the twilight — red and deep and 
flickering. 

She listened; nor was it in vain, for Cleve's voice, low- 
pitched and gentle, f elk on her ear in an instant. Evidently 
they were talking of some fiower which they were examining. 

“ 1 don’t know the generic name,” said Angie, aj^parently 
answering his question. “ I only know the emblem — love be- 
yond the grave.” 

“ Love beyond the grave,” repeated Cleve, slowly. “ Do 
you believe there is such a thing, Miss Gresham?” 

“Of course I do.” Angie’s voice was full of surprise. 
(“ Artful little minx,” thought Victoria, setting her white 
teeth close together.) “ Do you not believe it, Mr. Cleve?” 

“ 1 did not a month ago.” 

“ But now?” 

“ Yes, I do now.” 

“ And what has changed your opinion on the subject?” 
asked Angie, playfully. 

“ Can you ask me. Miss Gresham, when — ” 

He checked himself abruptly. TIaere was a rustling among 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 209 

the green thickets of equatorial bloom, and Victoria Lynd- 
hurst stood smiling before them. 

“ Oh, I have run so fast!’’ she exclaimed. “ Mr. Cleve, do 
come up to the billiard-room and help me play against Mr. 
Dudley. It’s my turn now!” 

Mr. Cleve’s brow contracted. 

‘‘lam an amateur in billiards. Miss Lyndhurst.’^ 

“ But you will come — unless ” — and she turned toward 
Angie— “ this young lady prefers a longer tete-a-tete with 
you!” 

There was something in her tone which stung Angie’s pride 
to the quick. 

“No,” she said, coloring crimson. “I have a letter to 
write yet before post-time. You will excuse me, Mr. Cleve.” 

And she slipped away through the drawing-room before a 
word of remonstrance could be spoken, while Victoria Lynd- 
hurst drew Mr. Cleve triumphantly away. 

“Just in time,” she thought; “I have spoiled youfq)ros- 
pects for once pretty effectually. Miss Angeline Gresham. 
There’s nothing like being on the alert.” 

When she returned to the billiard-room, accom^fied by 
her rather unwilling escort, Mr. Dudley was leaning against 
the window casing waiting for her to appear and claim Her 
play. 

“ I am not to be taken at any unfair disadvantage now,” 
she said, with affected artlessness. “ Mr. Cleve is here to ad- 
vise me!” 

“ So I perceive!” said Mr. Dudley, dryly. “ Did you find 
the ear-ring?” 

“ The ear-ring?” Victoria, thrown off her guard for the 
moment, turned red, and uttered a little forced laugh. “ No, 
I did not find it, but it don’t matter.” 

“I think I know where it is,” said Mr. Dudley, with a 
spice of malice. “ If you will look in your pocket, you will 
find it exactly where you put it yourself five minutes ago!” 

“ Did 1?” Victoria Lyndhurst’s laugh was exceedingly 
hearty now, as it rang out at her own expense. “ Good gra- 
cious! how absent-minded I am becoming! And to think 
what a search for it I had too!” 

Mr. Dudley smiled; yet, as he encountered Victoria Lynd- 
hurst’s eyes, he could not but think that there was something 
dangerous in them. 

“ I had better have held my tongue,” he thought; “ but, 

nevertheless^ there is a solid satisfaction in unmasking the 


210 IDA CHA loner’s HEART. 

girl and allowing her to see that her little maneuvers do not 
blind me /” 

Mr. Dudley returned to New York in the afternoon train, 
and Miss Lyndhurst was glad of it. She had a lurking con- 
sciousness that Mr. Dudley saw through her artifices, and Miss 
Victoria Lyndhurst did not like to be watched. 


CHAPTEE XXXI. 

THE NEW GUEST AT BEECHCLIFE. 

It was toward six o’clock in the afternoon — the usual dinner 
hour at Beechcliff — and most of the guests were in their rooms, 
preparing to dress or dressing for that meal. Mrs. Delamere 
and Angie were on the lawn, where the white marble nymphs 
were shining through their sparkling veil of spray, and Cap- 
tain Gracie sat on the portico steps, just returned from a 
walk. 

“ I saw the barouche at the station, with Perkins on guard, 
as I came by,” he said, carelessly patting the dog’s head as it 
crouched silently by his side. 

‘‘ I suppose Giuseppe sent it to meet Mr. Dudley and his 
friend,” said Ida. . 

I am quite anxious to see this Chevalier Bayard of a 
friend,” observed Angie. 

‘^Come, this won’t do,” said Captain Gracie, merrily. 
‘‘We who are garrisoning Beechcliff at present are not to be 
shelved in favor of a red-haired Scotchman, who is sixteenth 
cousin to Admiral Tyndale!” 

“ Eed-haired!” echoed Angie, in horror. “Oh, Captain 
Gracie, Mr. Dudley said it was a beautiful silky black. 

“ My Dudley has a powerful imagination, and a way of put- 
ting things that would have made his fortune if he had been a 
romance- writer by profession,” sai(L Captain Gracie, gravely. 
“ All Scotchmen are red-haired; for — halloo — ” 

He started to his feet and looked a little awkward as the 
inner door of the vestibule just above him was thrown open, 
and Mr. Dudley emerged on the portico with the identical* 
Scotchman in question by his side. 

“ This way, Dorrillon,” he said. “ The ladies are on the 
lawn, I perceive. Mrs. Delamere, let me introduce to you my 
friend, Mr. Dorillon — Miss Gresham, Captain Gracie.” 

Ida saw that the stranger was very tall and handsome, with 
dark, luxuriant hair and beard, and a mustache so heavy that 
it seemed completely to hide his mouth, except when he smiled 
or spoke sufficiently to reveal a set of dazzling white teeth. 


IDA CHA loner’s HEART. 


211 


There was something foreign in his air and manner as he stood 
there on the lawn — a something which you could not describe, 
and yet which was patent to all beholders. 

And Mr. Dorillon — what did he think of the lovely young 
widow in the white dress, with fresh roses in her hair and at 
her belt, and rose-colored ribbons fluttering from her slender 
waist — the mistress of Beechcliff, and the most beautiful 
woman in the State? Beautiful with the dark, glowing love- 
liness that belongs not to America nor to England, but to the 
dazzling atmosphere and tropical clime of Italy — with creamy 
skin, and lips like scarlet velvet, and eyes where the light of 
southern skies seemed to burn in deepening, languid fire. It 
would be difficult — nay, impossible — to describe all the 
thoughts and impressions that surged through the mind of 
Frederic Dorillon at that instant, as he bowed, scarcely touch- 
ing Mrs. Delamere’s extended hand. 

“ You are welcome to Beechclifl, Mr. Dorillon,” she said, 
smiling a cordial confirmation of her words. 

“ I am grateful for your welcome, Mrs. Delamere,” he an- 
swered, in a voice that was low and deep, not without a cer- 
tain musical accent in its tone. 

‘‘ Captain Gracie was just giving us a description of Scotch- 
men,” said Angie, mischieyously, when your sudden appear- 
ance on the scene interrupted it, Mr. Dudley.” 

‘^Of Scotchmen?” said Mr. Dorrillon, turning round, with 
an amused expression of countenance. ‘‘ I am interested in 
that. Pray go on. Captain Gracie.” 

Captain Gracie looked inexpressibly sheepish. 

Oh, it was only a fancy sketch,” he said, rather awkward- 
ly. “ I see now hovv^ utterly incorrect it was.” 

‘‘Go on, Gracie; don’t be bashful,” said Mr. Dudley. 
“ Let us have the benefit of it.” 

“ Let us all go into yae house,” interrupted Ida, as Captain 
Gracie’s eyes appealed mutely to her for assistance. “ Giu- 
seppe!” to the man who met them on the threshold. “We 
shall dine in about half an hour, Mr. Dorrillon,” she added, 
as he slipped her arm through Angie’s and entered the cool, 
darkened drawing-rooms. 

“ How do you like him, Angie?’^ she said, when they were 
alone together. 

“ He is very handsome — don’t you think so?” 

“ Yes, but foreign-looking. He speaks with a slight accent, 
too. I don’t like accents.” 

“ I do,” said Angie, thoughtfully. “ At all events, I like 
Mr. Dorrillon.” 


212 


IDA CHALONER's heart. 


You mustnH fall in love with him, child/^ said Ida, laugh- 
ing. ‘‘ One at a time, Angie. 

“ I don^t know what you mean, Ida,^^ said Miss Gresham, 
coloring, and looking very much confused. 

“ 1 can tell you exactly what I mean,^^ said Mrs. Delamere, 
‘‘ if — She uttered a slight exclamation of surprise. As she 
turned toward the conservatory door she saw something flash 
and sparkle in the semi-darkness. It was the diamond cross 
on the bosom of Victoria Lyiidhurst. 

‘‘ Miss Lyndhurst! 3 ^ou here?^^ 

I was dressed too early for dinner, languidly explained 
Miss Lyndhurst; ‘‘ so I lay down on the sofa, in this cool place, 
to wait for the gong. I declare I had quite fallen asleep. Did 
I startle you, Mrs. Delamere?^’ 

Ida laughed. “Not so much as you have startled Angie. 
Why, how pale you look, and how your heart beats, little 
one!’*"' 

And no wonder! Angie Gresham was beginning to be actu- 
ally afraid of Miss Victoria Lyndhurst. 

“ Little one!^^ slowly repeated Miss Lyndhurst. “You 
never call me ‘ little one,^ Mrs. Delamere, and yet Miss Gresh- 
am is full eight inches taller than I. Am I not the more 
of the two? Why don’t you call me ‘ little one?’ the 
words sound so sweetly from your lips!’^ 

“ I don’t know,” said Ida, pondering the subject within her 
own mind. “ You are so widely different! I should never 
dream of calling you ‘ little one,^ yet the words come naturally 
to my lips when I speak to Angie!” 

Victoria Lyndhurst laughed a little, well-pleased laugh. 
Yes, she was very different from the tall, sandy-haired daugh- 
ter of the Eector of Deepdale. She felt that, as she rose 
from her sofa, and stood in front of the mirror that filled 
the chimney-piece from mantel to cornice, softly shaking out 
her draperies of j)ale-blue silk, and arranging the llama lace 
shawl gracefully over her shoulders, while her diamond orna- 
ments scintillated vividly in the darkened room. As for poor 
Ai]gie, her white dress was not a new one, and it had been 
washed and ironed -many a time, and there was a mended spot, 
neatly executed, it is true, but still an undeniable mend, down 
by the hem, and her ribbons were rather a scant pattern. 
They luere different. The dinner was formal and stately, as 
the dinners at Beechcliff generally were, with a glitter of cut- 
glass, pyramidal structures of flowers at either end of the 
table, and ceremonious courses foilpwing one another, accord- 
ing to Giuseppe’s programme. But when the last perfumed 


IDA CHALONER's heart. 


213 


ices were sipped with tiny golden spoons, and the last glass of 
champagne was poured, and cup of black coffee swallowed, 
there was a universal adjournment toward the lawn and 
gardens. 

Ida turned to Mr. Dorrillon. 

‘‘You are my latest guest,^’ she said, with a child-like 
frankness of manner that was entirely devoid of anythiug like 
boldness; “ and I shall devote the evening to showing you my 
domain of Beechcliff.^^ 

He offered her his arm with a grave smile. She glanced 
up into his face as she took it, with a momentary sensation 
that amounted almost to timidity — an unusual feeling on her 
part, and not a pleasant one. 

“ You have never visited this country before?^^ 

He had dropped a pencil he was balancing between his 
fingers, and had to stoop for it. 

“ How clumsy of me!^^ he said. “ But this pencil has been 
my companion through many a lonely hour. As you say, 
Mrs. Delamere, it is all new to me. Shall we go down by the 
shore of the river? Eivers are my special admiration.'’^ 

“ And you must tell me all about Scotland/’ said Ida, as 
she turned toward the path leading dowji the slope to where 
the blue gleams, flashing now and then through the trees, re- 
vealed the river’s course. 

“ Have you never been in Scotland? I beg your pardon for 
the question, but I understood from my dear friend Dudley, 
that you had spent a good deal of time abroad?” 

“ I have, but not in Scotland. 1 have alwa 3 ^s been curious 
to see that land of old romance and story,” she added, lightly. 
“ Ah, you do not know what a fairy- world of beauty 1 have 
made it in my thoughts!” 

“ Then, perhaps, it is better you should never see it,” Mr. 
Dorrillon answered, gravely. “ This destroying of illusions is 
not pleasent.” 

“ But they need not be destroyed.” 

“ They always are.” 

“ Do you mean in Scotland?” asked Ida, laughingly. 

“ No, not specially. I mean everywhere.” 

“ I have not found it so,” said Ida, unwilling to drift into a 
deeper current of meaning in her conversation with this 
stranger, yet unable to avoid it. 

“ You are a very fortunate person, Mrs. Delamere,” he said. 

“ You speak as if your experience had been unfortunate,” 
she hazarded. 

“ It has,” was his low-spoken answer. 


214 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


‘‘ Yefc/^ pursued Ida, fascinated as it were into following up 
the subject, “ it can not have been very wide — you are still 
young. 

“ 1 am not old, Mrs. Delamere; that is, if you count life by 
years. 

“ How else should 1 count it?^^ 

‘‘We sometimes number it by events — epochs — occurrences. 
But I am talking of the past, Mrs. J3elamere,^^ he added, 
“ not the present. With me life ended long ago!^'’ 

She shivered instinctively, and then laughed. 

“You will make me think 1 am walking beside a corpse. 

He smiled gravely. 

“That sounds metaphysical and German; yet there is more 
truth in these German legends than one is apt to give them 
credit for. Yes, as I told you, Mrs. Delamere, I iiave ceased 
actually to live. I am only existing now — waiting for the 
finis, 

Ida stole another timid glance at his face. He was begin- 
ning to interest her strangely. 

“ Mr. Dorrillon — pardon me if I seem curious, but it is not 
that — you speak as if you had met with some great grief. 

“ I have.^^ He spoke through his set teeth, never looking 
into her pitying eyes. “A great grief — an overwhelming 
sorrow — one that I have closed the gates of memory on alto- 
gether. Mrs. Delamere — in quite another tone — “ this is 
the finest view 1 have ever seen, except one wooded slope on 
the banks of the Bhine.^^ 

“ Yes,^^ said Ida, thoughtfully, twisting the stem of the 
wild fiower she held in her hand, but not thinking of the view. 
“ Shall you remain in this country long, Mr. Dorrillon 

“ My plans are not yet fully determined.'’^ 

“ 1 hope we shall make it pleasant enough for you to decide 
to stay some time. 

“ Thank you,^^ he said. 

Ida was vexed with herself for having thus spoken. The 
sweet words, for which any other of her guests would have 
given all he possessed, had been received by this stranger cold- 
ly — as a matter of course. Ida determined that she would not 
again give Mr. Dorrillon reason to think she was interested, 
either one way or the other, in his stay or departure. 

“ Shall we return to the house?’^ she asked, abruptly. 

“ Are you tired of the moving shadows and the ripple of the 
water?’^ demanded Dorrillon. 

“No; but they usually play croquet directly after dinner, 
and we have some excellent players in the house. 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


215 


“ You are fond of croquet he asked. 

‘‘ [Not particularly so/’ she replied. 

‘‘ Nor I. I should rather remain here in the stillness and 
the solitude. Nature is the dearest and closest friend I shall 
ever possess. ’’ 

He sat down at her feet, on a mossy bowlder, where an 
umbrella-like dogwood-tree laid its patch of tremulous shade 
on the turf. Ida was more annoyed than ever; his words 
puzzled her. She was accustomed to have her society courted 
and appreciated at its fullest s^alue. This hangKty, dark-faced 
Scotchman raved about solitude, and did not seem to care 
whether she stood beside him or not. 

‘‘ ])on’t let me keep you here if you really prefer the gay 
group yonder,’^ he said, suddenly looking up, as she hesitated. 
It was. the one word needed to complete her half -formed reso- 
lution. 

‘‘ No,^^ she said, quietly, “ I will not.^^ 

And, turning round, she went up the hill-side, her cheek 
crimson, and her pulses throbbing a trifle faster than usual. 

“ I have been very rude,” she thought, penitently, as she 
paused at the crest of the elevation, and, glancing back, saw 
him still sitting motionless under the shadow of the dogwood- 
tree; “but I couldn’t help it. 1 think I dislike that Mr. 
Dorrillon. No — I do not, either; but he puzzles me. I ought 
not to have left him there, but the impulse of defying him was, 
too strong within me. If I were any one else, I should go back 
and ask his pardon; but of him — no, never!” 

And, dismissing the idea from her brain, Mrs. Delamero 
went rapidly forward to the croquet ground. 

“ What have you done with Dorrillon?’^ demanded. 

Mr. Dudley, who was sitting on the grass at Mrs. Forsyth’s 
feet, lazily enjoying the beauty of the evening. 

“ I have left liim in the woods, rhapsodizing about nature,” 
said Ida, smiliug. “ Am I too late for a mallet? Never mind; 
I will wait until the next game.” 

And, in watching the progress of the balls, Ida tried to for- 
get Mr. Dorrillon altogether. But she was not altogether suc- 
cessful. 


CHAPTEE XXXII. 

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. 

“We are not playing as well as usual,” said Mrs. Caris- 
forde, when the game was about half through. “ Our best 
plaj^ers are gone. Where are Miss Lyndhurst and Mr. Cleve?” 


216 


IDA CHALO^fER^S HEART. 


“ Victoria has a slight headache this evening, and thought 
she would not come out/^ apologized her uncle. 

And Oleve — where is he?’^ 

Writing in the library, I believe.’^ 

‘‘ Writing in the library! And on such a superb evening 
as this!’^ cried Captain Gracie. '' Now, I call that downright 
sacrilege. Let some one go after him at once. Forsyth, you 
aren^t in the game; go tell Cleve we can take in two more 
balls on our side if he will come. Stay — tell him Mrs. Dela- 
mere wants to speak to him.^^ 

Ida protested faintly against this lawless use of her name, 
but Mr. Forsyth was gone before she could check him, spring- 
ing up the terrace steps three at a time. 

Victoria Lyndhurst, sitting in the shadow of the draw- 
ing-room window-curtains, saw him enter, and her quick 
ears followed the ringing sound of his steps along the marble 
hall toward the library door. She was emphatically ‘^on 
guard that night, and neither sight nor sound escaped her 
vigilant senses. Eising softly, she stole through the drawing- 
room, entering a sort of boudoir which adjoined the library, 
and formed a communication between the two apartments. 
The door — a very unusual circumstance — was ajar; Miss Lynd- 
hurst herself had opened it early in the afternoon, and had, 
either by accident or design, forgotten to close it again. There 
she paused, listening intently. 

“ It wonT do, old fellow,^'' she heard Forsyth say, resolute- 
ly. ‘‘ The letters will keep, and croquet wonT!^^ 

But you really must excuse me for to-night, said Waver- 
ley Cleve, in a tone of annoyance. 

“ You^ll have to make your excuses to Mrs. Delamere then, 
not to me; it is she who has bidden your presence out on the 
croquet ground. 

“ Tell her how it is — that I am particularly engaged in 
writing. 

Not I; you must tell her yourself. 

Cleve uttered an exclamation of vexation, but rose, never- 
theless, pushing his papers under a crystal paper-weight, and 
Victoria could hear him striding out of the library after Mr. 
P'orsyth. 

This, then, was her opportunity. 

Waiting cautiously until she was quite sure that the library 
was vacant, she stole into the room, and, creeping like a cat 
across the floor, she lifted the crystal paper-weight and hur- 
riedly turned over the papers. 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 217 

A low murmur of annoyance escaped from between her 
compressed lips — they were all blank sheets. 

Yet there, upon the pen-rack which surrounded the silver 
standish, lay the pen, still wet with the ink in which it had 
been recently dipped. There had been no turning of the key 
in any desk — no slipping sound of drawers opening or closing. 
Of that Victoria Lyndhurst was quite sure. 

He can not have hidden it entirely,^"' she said to herself, 
again turning over the papers. “ I will know what it is!’^ 

As her light, skillful fingers fluttered the papers one by 
one, a sheet of closely written note-paper fell between the 
pages of a quire of foolscap, bearing the well-known hand- 
writing of Waverley Cleve. Victoria knew it by heart: she 
had treasured one or two notes he had sent her on trifling 
occasions too long and tenderly to be mistaken now; and a 
cold, hard smile of triumph came into her face. 

‘‘ I thought so!^^ she muttered. ‘‘ I thought so!^^ 
Evidently Miss Lyndhurst was not troubled with any over- 
fastidious scruples on the subject of reading communications 
not intended for her own eye, for she devoured the first few 
lines with an eager glance: 

My dearest Angie (how her lip curled as she read the 
words!) — ‘‘ Shall you be surprised that I take this method of 
communicating to you what I have already endeavored, with- 
out success, to tell you in words — my sincere and earnest love? 
But do not imagine that I shall press you with undue solicita- 
tions. You shall not even have the ungracious task of saying 
^ No!^ If, when I meet you at the breakfast-table to-morrow 
morning, you come to me and place your hand in mine, I shall 
know that your heart goes with it; it is a common greeting at 
Beechcliff, and need excite no comment. But if you regard 
my devotion as uncalled for — if you wish to convince me as 
gently as possible that I have mistaken your kindness for 
something deeper— then, Angie, let the note be destroyed. I 
shall understand you without the mediation of words. I love 
you, Angie; I have been learning to love you ever since we 
first met at Beechcliff, and your fresh innocence, and pure, 
unsullied character taught me, in its contrast to the hackneyed 
affection of others (here Victoria’s lip curled again), “ the 
beauty of genuine womanhood. And I am vain enough to 
believe that I can make you happy, my pure little wild flower. 
I have been all the afternoon writing this letter and rewriting 
it, and even now it is far enough from expressing all I would 
fain say to you, for — 


m 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEART. 


Here it broke off abruptly — here Henry Forsyth had burst 
into the room, checking the pen in its half-formed syllables. 
Miss Lyndhurst replaced it exactly where she had found it, 
between the sheets of foolscap, with the crystal paper-weight 
upon it, and crept noiselessly back to the boudoir just in time 
to avoid meeting Mr. Cleve, who was hastening back along the 
wide hall. 

‘‘ So,^"" she thought, “ this is the engrossing task which has 
absorbed all his afternoon! And it has come to this! Eeally 
the man is blinder and more rash than I had supposed. 
Waverley Cleve actually proposing to a staring, pink-cheeked 
country girl, who has never even seen New York! Why, it^s 
a complete infatuation! He will live one day to bless the hand 
that mercifully saves him from his doom, and that hand shall 
be mine!^’ 

For Miss Lyndhurst had fully made up her mind, as she 
crept through the twilight of the parlors. 

“ I must watch,^’ she thought, ‘‘ and wait. Patience! My 
vigils have not been in vain hitherto. I shall win yet. Angie 
Gresham has no brains and I have, that is the difference be- 
tween us, and 1 may safely defy her doll-face and simpering 
smiles!^"' 

How little Waverley Cleve imagined, as he sat down at the 
library desk and resumed the penning of the epistle upon 
which so much depended, whose glance had rested, instinct 
with red-brown light, upon the pages destined for Angie^s eyes 
alone! 

Victoria Lyndhurst sat long and patiently, almost as motion- 
less as a red Indian waiting in ambush for the rustling leaf or 
breaking branch that betokens the coming of a foe; nor was 
she unrewarded. 

It was quite dark when she heard the library door close and 
Cleve’s footsteps ringing along the floor of the hall. 

The letter then was written — the letter which Victoria was 
fully determined Angie Gresham should never have, and she 
awaited calmly the development of the event. 

Mr. Cleve turned at the carved black walnut newel and 
ascended the broad staircase. 

It was quite dark now, and the halls were not yet lighted. 
Fortunately, Giuseppe was later than usual in this portion of 
his evening duty, and Victoria was quite certain of being un- 
observed as she hurried to the foot of the stairs and stood 
still there. 

‘‘Maria!^^ she could hear him speak to the chamber-maid 
who had charge of the rooms on the upper story. 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


219 


“ Yes, sir.^^ 

Maria was distributing clean towels, and had her arm full of 
scented white linen as she came to his summons. 

“ Will you do me a favor? Just lay this note on the dress- 
ing-table in Miss Gresham^s room; or, stay — if you will show 
me which it is, I will put it there myself. 

“ Certainly, sir,^^ said Maria, promptly; ‘‘it is the second 
door, sir — that one. 

She held open the door, while Mr. Cleve, entering the sacred 
domain of maidenhood, where the twilight glimmered softly 
on snowy draperies, and the air was sweet with the breath of 
freshly gathered roses in a tall china vase on the mantel, laid 
the note reverently on the table. 

“ Eemember, Maria,^^ he said, slipping a piece of money 
into the smiling domestic^s hand, “ nobody is to have the note 
but Miss Gresham herself.'’^ 

“ 1^11 be sure to remember, sir,^^ said Maria, dropping her 
best courtesy. 

And then, with a heart as light as his footsteps, AVaverley 
descended the stairs, whistling an opera air softly as he went, 
followed presently by Maria, who had completed her upstairs 
tasks. 

Miss Lyndhurst had shrunk into the recess of the drawing- 
room door as they passed. She did not care to be observed 
just yet, and watched Maria on her way to the servants’ hall, 
and Mr. Cleve as he went out into the dewy garden. Then, 
quick and silent as a flitting shadow, she glided up the stair- 
way and into Angie Gresham’s room. 

There lay the tiny note, in whose folds dwelt so much of 
possible fate, shinining white in the gathering dusk, exactly 
where AA'averley Cleve had placed it. 

Victoria snatched it from the dressing-table, and tearing it 
into tiny pieces, thrust it into her pocket. 

“ I must burn the scraps when I get to my own room,” she 
said to herself. “ JSlo word or line must remain to bear wit- 
ness against me!” 

Five minutes later, with a scented taper, ostensibly used to 
seal letters, burning in her room, Victoria Lyndhurst held 
over it the slips of paper one by one, watching the ashes curl 
into the little a«h-shell of the taper-stand with a smile ten 
times more vindictive than any frown, and, finally removing 
her lace-edged pocket-handkerchief, she turned the pocket in- 
side out, to make sure that she had destroyed them all. 

Yes, all — all but one, which, lying amid the folds of her 


220 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAET. 


handkerchief, had escaped her search, and which she now un- 
consciously returned to her pocket. 

It is said that a murderer, seeking to avoid all taint of sup- 
posed crime, closes ninety-nine doors of suspicion, and leaves 
the hundredth wide open to convict himself. So it was with 
Victoria Lyndhurst. She outwitted herself! 

When the party of croquet players came in, full of gay talk 
and laughter, Victoria sat at the grand piano in the brilliantly 
lighted drawing-room, striking such chords as she could im- 
provise. 

Your headache is better, then, dear,’^ said Mrs. Forsyth, 
in soft, congratulatory tones, as she advanced into the room. 

Oh, much better!'’^ said Victoria. It is so kind of you 
all to remember my trifling ailments. I have been asleep in 
my own room since dinner. 

Angie Gresham had entered with Captain Gracie, and was 
sitting near the door. Victorians eyes rested upon her with a 
calm, steady light. 

And you. Miss Angie — how have you enjoyed the game? 
As much as usualP’^ 

“ Very much,n^ said Angie, shyly. Somehow she never felt 
entirely at her ease in Miss Lyndhurstns presence. Is that 
nine o'clockFn^ as a time-piece in some adjoining room tolled 
the hour with musical click. I had no idea it was so late. 
If you will excuse me, Ida, 1 will go up to my room. I 
promised papa to keep a diary regularly while I was here, and 
I have made no entries in two or three days.^’^ 

“ A diary repeated Victoria, mockingly, as with a smile 
and a nod from Ida the young girl withdrew. Quite like 
the good young ladies in the story-books, upon my word! I 
did not know that anybody ever kept diaries nowadays!^’ 

While Waverley Cleve watched her from the room with a 
deepening color on his cheek and a heart which throbbed per- 
ceptibly faster. 

“ She will get the letter now,^^ he thought, and my fate 
-is coming nearer to me. Heaven grant that the little soft- 
voiced, blue-orbed dove may be willing to nestle to my breast !^^ 

Mrs. Delamere,^^ called out Mr. Forsyth, who had been 
glancing over some letters brought him by a servant, I have 
good news!^^ 

Ida was sitting on a low garden-chair on the portico with- 
out, but so close to the window that the folds of her white 
dress lay partly on the carpet within the room, and her delicate 
profile was clearly outlined by the lamp-light, while Mr. Hor- 
rillon, leaning against the casing opposite, talked to her in a 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 221 

low voiro. Evidently he had forgiven her her offense of a 
few hours ago. 

She glanced up at Mr. Forsyth’s voice. 

“ Good news — what is it?'^ she asked, with as much ap- 
parent interest as if Forsyth had not awkwardly interrupted 
her companion at a most absorbing point of description. 

Fairfax and his sister are coming to-morrow.” 

Ida’s eyes sparkled. 

That is good news — very good news,” she said, earnestly. 

“ Oh, I knew you would say so,” said Mr. Forsyth. “ Mrs. 
Delamere will have no more eyes for us, Mr. Dorrillon, when 
this good-looking rascal of a Fairfax is once here!” 

Mr. Dorrillon glanced uneasily at Ida as the words were 
spoken. She felt herself coloring, and she could have bitten 
her scarlet under-lip through with vexation. 

What was it to her whether Ferdinand Fairfax came to 
Beechclifl: or remained in Boston? Why should she care 
v/hether Dorrillon thought she was overglad to welcome the 
new-comer or not? She . was her own mistress, and account- 
able to none of them for her conduct, yet she was conscious of 
a very hearty wish that Henley Forsyth had been in Borne or 
Jericho, or any other place that was sufficiently distant from 
her drawing-room at that particular moment. 

What has detained them so long?” asked Ida, ignoring 
Mr. Forsyth’s facetious allusions. 

‘‘ Some friends who have just taken their departure, he says 
in his letter. We shall have Beechcliff full at this rate?” 

Yes, won’t it be nice?” simpered his blue-eyed wife. ‘‘ 1 
don’t know Miss Fairfax, but I’ve heard she’s a very sweet 
girl!” 

‘^Are they really such friends of yours?” asked Mr. Dor- 
rillon, with a curiosity he had not yet deigned to display on 
any subject whatsoever. 

‘‘Yes, or else they would not have been invited to Beech- 
cliff,” answered Ida, calmly. “Miss Fairfax is one of the 
noblest girls I ever met. They were my fellow-passengers on 
the Liverpool steamer last spring, as well as old companions 
of travel before. You have met no Bostonians as yet, Mr. 
Dorrillon. I think you will like the Fairfaxes!” 

And saying these words, Mrs. Delamere rose and joined a 
group of ladies near the piano, leaving Mr. Dorrillon for the 
second time that day to take care of himself. 


222 


IDA CHALOKER'S heart. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 

Aftgie Gresham did not begin to write as soon as she en- 
tered her room. She unbound the masses of flaxen hair from 
their fillet of blue ribbon, and exchanged her dress for a loose 
wrapper of white muslin, and then sat down to think. 

The world had grown very different in Angie Gresham^s 
innocent eyes since her last sojourn at Beechcliff. Somehow 
it had acquired more of sunshine and brightness. The quiet, 
every-day enjoyments were heightened into a radiant happi- 
ness, and Waverley Oleve was the magician whose presence 
had done it all. Angie knew it now, and felt it; there was no 
further disguising the facts. 

Victoria Lyndhurst^s sharp eyes had told her plainly enough 
what she might have been long enough in finding out for her- 
self — that Waverley Cleve was not indifferent toward her — 
and that she loved Waverley Cleve! 

I know it^s wrong, thought Angie, fluttering, as she sat 
at the open window, dreamirigly watching the glow and quiver 
of the stars in the deep firmament above; it must be wrong, 
for mamma told me I must never think about any gentleman 
until he had first asked me to be his wife. Mr. Cleve certainly 
hasiiT asked me any such question,” and Angie felt herself 
growing hot, even in the innocent companionship of the stars, 
“ and yet I canT help thinking a great deal about Mr. Cleve.” 

Her reverie was here interrupted by a knock at the door, 
that made her start and color — but it was only Maria. 

I beg your pardon, miss, but I forgot whether I brought 
the towels to your room to-night. Bless me, are you sitting 
here all alone in the dark?” 

1 — 1 haven’t lighted a candle yet, Maria,” faltered Angie, 
feeling as if Maria must know why she had preferred sitting in 
the dark. She sprung up, hurrying to strike a match and 
illuminate the room. “ Yes — I believe the towels are all 
right. ” 

“ And,” Maria glanced at the dressing-table and lowered 
her voice to a mysterious whisper, ‘‘ you got the letter, miss, 
all right?’^ 

The letter, Maria?’^ 

‘‘ Yes, miss — the letter; it was right on the table here.” 

Angie looked at Maria in surprise, 


IDA CHALOJS’^ER^S HEAET. 223 

‘^IhavenH seen any letter/^ she said. ‘‘What letter do 
you mean, Maria 

“ Well/^ cried the chamber-maid, “ if that don^t beat all. 
Why, I saw him put it here,^^ touching the dressing-table with 
her fingers, “ with my own eyes, and he says, says he, as 
pleasant like as can be, ‘ Eemember, Maria, it’s for Miss 
Gresham’s own hand,’ and there ain’t a soul’s crossed the 
threshold since; and what can have come of it?” 

“Stop, Maria,” said Angie, “you confuse me. Who put 
the letter here?” 

“Mr. Cleve, to be sure, miss!” 

“ Mr. Cleve — and for me?” 

“ Yes, miss — for you!” 

“ But, Maria,” said Angie, after a short silence of wonder- 
ing surprise, “ are you sure you were not mistaken?” 

“ Mistaken!” echoed Maria; “no more, miss, than I’m in 
saying that I’m standing here and talking to you this minute. 
Mistaken! of course not!” 

“ Then,” said Angie, “ what can have become of the let- 
ter?” 

“ That’s the very question, miss!” 

Maria got down on her knees to look under the table and on 
carpet — shook the dimity cover of the dressing-table to make 
sure that the letter had not hidden itself away there^ — and then 
subjected the rest of the room to a pretty diligent search. 

“ Well,” said Maria, “ now I am beat!” 

“ Maria,” began Angie, with the instinct to rest upon some 
one else which seemed a part of her nature, “ what do you 
think I had better do?” 

“ Well, miss, if I was in your place I would ask the young 
gentleman himself about it.” 

“ Oh, Maria, no!” 

“ Why not? It’s the only way to find out.” 

“ No,” persisted Angie, resolutely shaking her head; “ that 
would never do. Wait, Maria; this mystery will be cleared up 
in time. The letter couldn’t have vanished into nothing — it 
must be somewhere, and we shall find it after awhile.” 

Maria looked doubtful. But having a plan of her own, she 
said nothing more, and left Angie to wonder by herself. 

“James,” she said, presently, to a footman who was in 
the hall below, “ would you be so kind as to go and ask Mr. 
Cleve for the key of his room? It’s the towels, you know! 
Tell him it’s Maria wants it!” 

Maria was a plump, apple-cheeked girl, goodly to look 
upon, and not without a leaven of coquetry in her nature; 


224 


IDA CHALONSK^S HEART. 


and James, being fully sensible of these feminine attractions, 
made a point of always doing whatever Maria asked him. 
Consequently, he entered the drawing-room and stepped 
quietly up to Mr. Cleve, who was dreaming over a portfolio 
of prints beneath the chandelier. 

“ If you please, sir,'^ he said, in a low tone. Maria wants 
the key of your room.^^ 

Cleve looked up in surprise. 

The key of my room? It is in the door. I never take it 
out.^^ 

But Maria told me, sir — 

“ Maria is mistaken. 

James was ju^t retreating in discomfiture, when Cleve, hap- 
pening to look toward the door of the hall, saw Maria beckon- 
ing to him, and twisting her face into various contortions, 
which evidently had some special meaning. 

“ Stay, Janies,’^ he said, “ I will see Maria myself. 

And he entered the hall, with Maria flitting before him to 
its furthest extremity. 

Well, Maria, what is it?’' he asked. 

The letter, sir! Miss Gresham has never got it! It isn’t 
there!” 

Mr. Cleve stared at Maria a minute or two before he could 
fully comprehend her meaning. 

‘‘Not there!” he exclaimed, at last, as a glimpse of the 
real truth began to make its way through his brain. “ Then 
what can have become of it?” 

“ That’s the very thing, sir, as I told Miss Gresham over 
and over again. It can’t have walked away itself!” 

“ You are sure it is not there?” 

“ Yes, sir, quite sure,” reiterated Maria. 

“ Then some one must have taken it.” 

“ But who could have taken it, sir?” 

“ I am sure I do not know.” 

Waverley Cleve’s brow was knitted now, and his lips tightly 
compressed. Maria watched him, a little cowed, and thought 
to herself that she should not like to be an enemy of Mr. 
Cleve, or any one that he was very angry with. 

“ I am very much obliged to you, Maria, for telling me of 
this,” he said, at length. “ Miss Gresham does not know that 
you have informed me?” 

“ No, sir,” said the girl; “ I don’t believe she would have 
allowed me to speak to you, sir, if I had let her know what 
was in my mind.” 

“Very well; say nothing to any person whatever on the 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


225 


subject. He turned away, his brows still contracted, and 
Maria crept away to the servants’ hall, thinking how very 
much all this was like the last dime novel that Perkins, the 
coachman, had lent her to read. 

Waverley Cleve returned to the drawing-room, puzzled very 
much in his mind as to what all this might mean. There was 
some discordant element whose presence he had not suspected 
— some hidden interference which he must make it his busi- 
ness to track out as speedily and directly as possible. Surely 
it could not have been one of the servants who had taken away 
the note; and who else was there in the house capable of such 
perfidy? 

As these half -formed thoughts ranged themselves in his 
mind, he chanced to look up, meeting, by this sudden move- 
ment, the full, stealthy light of Victoria Lyndhurst’s peculiar- 
ly colored eyes. 

She dropped her glance as their eyes met. He fancied she 
turned a shade rosier, but the room was warm and he might 
easily be mistaken. Yet that one glance had suggested a chain 
of associations to his mind. Victoria Lyndhurst—the girl who 
had always shown such a preference for his society— about 
whom pecmle had rallied him time and again — whose dislike 
of Angie (rresham was so patent as to be almost rude — could 
it, he asked himself, be possible that — 

In the same instant, Victoria, herself evidently a little em- 
barrassed, drew her lace pocket-handkerchief out and passed 
it with a slight, nervous movement across her lips. As she 
did so a slip of paper fiuttered from its web-like folds and fell 
on the carpet a little back of her. 

Mr. Cleve rose, and advancing toward her, set his foot de- 
liberately on the mute witness, screening it momentarily from 
view. 

“ Miss Lyndhurst,” he said, trying to speak composedly, 

you have not sung anything this evening. Sing the ‘ Span- 
ish Muleteer;’ it seems an age since I have heard it.” 

“ An age since you have asked for it, you mean,” said Vic- 
toria, seating herself at once at the piano. “ You used to like 
to hear me sing, Mr. Cleve.” 

“ Do 1 not now?” 

He almost hated himself for his hypocrisy, as she shot a 
sidelong glance at him from her red-brown eyes. 

“The songs of other birds have charmed you more of late,” 
she said, opening her music-book, and interrupting all reply 
by the tumultuous chords she struck. 

Miss Lyndhurst had a fine contralto voice, and really sung 


226 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEAM. 


very well, but the instant the music engrossed her attention, 
Waverley Oleve stepped back a pace or two, and letting his 
handkerchief fall, stooped to pick it up again, and with it the 
slip of paper. 

Yes, there was no further possibility of mistake. It was 
covered with his own handwriting — a piece torn away from the 
very letter he had that afternoon written. With a heart swell- 
ing with indignation he read the words as they occurred 
irregularly: 

“ of words 
— the wounds they 
-love you, Angie. I have 
— since we met 
— nnocence. 

That was all. Was it not enough? Yes — and more than 
enough. Victoria Lyndhurst^s was the hand that would fain 
have upset the cup of his happiness and sweet Angie Gresh- 
am’s. He shuddered to think how nearly successful she had 
been, and then he felt as if no punishment could be severe 
enough for the one who was so dishonorable and treacherous 
as this. Spare her? Not he! He would confront her with 
her own baseness — he would let her see that the full extent of 
her malicious guilt was discovered! 

And all this time, while he stood, pale and rigid, with the 
slip of paper in his hand. Miss Lyndhurst was singing with all 
the pretty, graceful little turns of the head and trills of the 
rich, flexible voice that she could invent. 

Oleve watched her with something very like disgust. How 
could he ever have fancied that this painted, afiected old maid 
was beautiful? 

Are you satisfied now?” she asked, turning round play- 
fully on the piano-stool, and looking him full in the face with 
a gaze that she had occasionally found not inefiective in former 
days. 

“Yes, thank you,” he said, calmly, “quite satisfied. 
There’s something that you dropped from your pocket a few 
minutes ago. Miss Lyndhurst, when you took out your pocket- 
handkerchief. ” 

He extended the bit of torn paper to her, enjoying the sud- 
den change that came over Victoria’s face — from artless sur- 
prise to quick recognition, then to blank, staring horror and 
guilt. 

“ It — it is not mine!” she faltered. 

“ No, it is not yours,” he said, slowly, “ and therefore it 


IDA CHALOITER’S HEART. 


227 


was all the baser and more contemptible of you to steal it from 
her for whom it was intended and attempt to destroy it. For 
once, Victoria Lyndhurst, you are detected!’^ 

Miss Lyndhurst was a strong girl, and a resolute one, who 
had never fainted in her life — but then she had never been in 
quite such a mortifying predicament before; and between her 
own shame, Mr. Oleve^s blazing eyes, tightdacing, and the 
heat of the evening, nature asserted itself for once.. 

Miss Lyndhurst fainted, falling oS the piano-stool just as 
heavily as the girl she stigmatized as clumsy Angie Gresham 
might have done; Mrs. Henley Forsyth sprung to her aid at 
once. 

“ Dear me — she is fainting. A glass of water, Mr. Cleve, 
quick— and some cologne or hartshorn, somebody 

A little crowd collected round Miss Lyndhurst at once, but 
Waverley Cleve walked calmly off, leaving somebody else to 
bring the glass of water. He had other business on hand. 

‘‘ I knew she was tiring herself too much,^^ said Mrs. For- 
syth, sympathetically. She has had a headache all the 
evening. Mr. Cleve ought to have known better than to have 
asked her to sing the ‘ Spanish Muleteer;^ but men are so 
thoughtless; and dear Victoria is the most unselfish of human 
creatures 

Miss Victoria, however, came duly to her senses, and was 
much relieved to find that Mr. Cleve was not among the little 
group that surrounded her. 

“It is only faintness and the heat of the rooms, sighed 
Victoria, sweetly, in answer to the inquiries of Mrs. Delamere. 
“ I am very foolish, to be sure, but 1 shall soon be better, if 
uncle will only give me his arm up to my room.'’^ 

And so Miss Lyndhurst retreated from the field of battle. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Cleve had gone straight to the library, and 
was once more seated before the desk, by the light of two 
large solar lamps, whose luster diffused a clear and delicious 
brilliance throughout the room. 

“ I will not give it up so,^^ he muttered between his clinched 
teeth, as he drew a sheet of paper toward him, and dipped the 
pen once more into the silver standish. 

Maria, according to orders, waited in the hall without, sit- 
ting very uncomfortably in a high Gothic chair, and falling 
asleep between whiles: for it was far later than Maria’s usual 
hour for retiring, and she was a girl who liked her full quan- 
tum of sleep. Moreover, it was provoking that James 
shouldn’t have known by intuition that she was there, and 
come to keep her awake by a little judicious fiirtation. She 


228 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


would tell James to-morrow, and then wouldn^t he be sorry to 
know what an opportunity he had missed. She was turning 
these things over in the drowsy depths of her consciousness, 
when Mr. Cleve came to the door. 

“ Is the letter ready, sir?’^ asked Maria, starting at once to 
her feet. 

“ There it is. Give it into her own hands, Maria, and be 
sure you bring me back the answer yourself.’^ 

Yes, sir. There sha^nT be any mistake this time.^^ 

And as Maria ascended the staircase, she examined the slip 
of crumpled paper Mr. Cleve had placed in her hand simul- 
taneously with the letter. 

Bless me!^^ cried Maria, half aloud, if it ainT a twenty- 
dollar bill! If he ainT the generousest gentleman in all the 
world. 1^11 have that new dress with the silk flouncings now, 
for certain 

Angie Gresham was still sitting in her room before the 
unwritten pages of the diary which she had hardly the heart 
to commence when Maria tapped at the door. 

‘‘ It^s me, miss, with a letter!^’ 

“ Come in, Maria,'’^ said Angie, in surprise. 

‘‘I^m to wait outside, miss, for an answer, said Maria, 
demurely disappearing. 

Angie opened the note with a little thrill at her innocent 
heart as she recognized Mr. Cleve^s handwriting. It read: 

“ Dearest Akgie, — This is the second letter I have sent 
to your room to-night; so you will at least give me credit for 
being a tolerably persistent lover. The other was intercepted 
by an act of foul treachery, which I am resolved to anticipate 
for the future. Perhaps I might have waited until to-morrow 
morning before telling you how truly and earnestly I love you, 
and how entirely all the happiness of my future life will de- 
pend on your promising to become my wife; but I could not • 
have slept with the question unanswered. If this communi- 
cation seems abrupt, I can explain it all when we meet again. 
There is a time in a man^s life when the impatience of an 
existence seems concentrated in one moment, ^and that time 
has arrived for me as I sit here waiting for your answer. One 
word will suffice for me, Angie — Yes or No. I await it as my 
doom. W. C.^’ 

Angie read the letter once, twice, three times. To her it 
was not abrupt; to her it bore the stamp of the genuine gold 
of lore — the gold which was to make her lifers riches. 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


229 


She sat down, and, with cheeks burning with soft, happy 
excitement, wrote upon a sheet of pink-waved paper the one 
little word, ‘‘Yes.^^ It was fortunate that she had not to 
write more, for her hands trembled and her eyes were dimmed 
with a moisture which was not that of grief, as she gave the 
note into the hands of the faithful Maria. 

And so Waverley Cleve received the answer to his resolutely 
prosecuted suit — Yes!^^ 

It was not until the answer was past recall that Angie Gresh- 
am half trembled at the consciousness that she, who scarce 
ever before had ventured to choose a ribbon or a dress without 
her mother’s advice and sanction, had boldly taken her destiny 
into her own hands. 

But it can not be wrong, or I should not be so happy!” 
thought Angie. 

But these were not the only circumstances of importance to 
our story which transpired at Beechcliff during that eventful 
July evening. 

It was past eleven o’clock when Mrs. Delamere, wearied 
with her exertions as hostess, and unaware of the by-play of 
affairs going on around her, finally went up to her own suite 
of rooms. * 

Mathilde — the same light-hearted Frenchy little damsel 
who had been her maid in Paris — was sitting at her needle- 
work in the shaded lamp-light. 

‘‘ I am very tired, Mathilde,” she said, wearily. “ I believe 
I shall go directly to bed.” 

If madame pleases,” interposed Mathilde, moving forward 
a low easy-chair for her mistress, ‘‘ Giuseppe would like to 
speak to madame for an instant, before she retires. ” 

“ Tell him to come in, then.” 

And in a minute or two Giuseppe entered the sitting-room. 

Well, Giuseppe?” asked his mistress. 

Madame,” said the man, bowing in his old obsequious 
way, ‘‘ would my temporary absence inconvenience you 
much?” 

‘‘ Your temporary absence, Giuseppe? What do you 
mean?” 

I have this day received a letter from Italy, madame. 
My poor old father — the saints be kind to him!— lies very ill, 
and wishes to give me his blessing ere he departs. I am but a 
poor man, madame, but I have my feelings, and — ” 

‘‘Go, by all means, Giuseppe.” There was a perceptible 
accent of relief in Mrs. Delamere’s tone. “ I dare say Mrs. 
Hyde and Perkins and the rest can manage to do without you 


230 


IDA CHA LONER HEART. 


for awhile very well. And if you are not well supplied with 
money I will write you a check for five hundred dollars at 
once!^^ 

‘‘ Madame is too kind. Madame may rest assured that I 
will not prolong my stay an instant beyond the time actually 
necessary. 

‘‘You need not hurry back, Giuseppe, said Mrs. Delamere, 
coolly. “ Eemain as long as you please. And,^^ she added, 
within herself, “ I wish it might be forever 

Giuseppe smiled a covert smile, as he drew his hand across 
his mouth with a peculiar sort of motion he had. 

“ If madame would write the check to-night,^ ^ he said, 
“ there would be no useless delays in the morning, and — 

“ Certainly. 

Ida drew her desk toward her, and wrote the check at once. 

“There! take it, Giuseppe,'’^ she said, carelessly, “and 
begone!’^ 

Giuseppe obeyed; and Ida Delamere drew a long breath as 
she felt the oppression of his presence withdrawn. 

“ At least, she thought, “ I shall breathe more easily for 
the next few days, although I can never feel entirely free while 
Giuseppe dwells lika a Nemesis within my gates, and while — 

She shuddered as there rose up before her memory the out- 
lines of a fair, oval face, with gold-brown hair and blue eyes — 
a face she had once loved so dearly, and which now she tried 
persistently, yet in vain, to banish from her remembrance — 
her mother^s face ! 


CHAPTEK XXXIV. 

TROUT-FISHING. 

The faint crimson of the summer sunrise had scarcely begun 
to deepen through the pearl -gray mists of dawn that hung over 
the tranquil course of the Connecticut Eiver, when two pedes- 
trians crossed the dewy lawn, and took their way in the direc- 
tion of a ravine some two or three miles distant, where a clear 
little trout-stream wound itself among rocks and overhanging 
trees, now brawling noisily over a pebbly bottom, and perhaps 
a little further on forming deep, sunless pools, beneath the 
tangled shadow of overhanging trees and bushes, woven with 
clematis and wild vines. 

“ It^s barbarous to rouse you up so early,^^ said Mr. Dudley, 
stopping on the extreme confines of the ornamental grounds 
to light a cigar; “ but then you canT call yourself properly 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEAKT. 231 

Americanized until youVe caught a basketful of our real gold- 
speckled trout directly out of their native waters/^ 

‘‘It is not too early for me/^ his companion answered — 
Frederic Dorrillon. “ This morning ^s coolness is perfectly 
delicious, and I suppose a long walk will only give us the more 
zest for our sport 

“ Sport!^^ echoed Dudley. “ I believe you! There^s noth- 
ing like it in all Scottish lakes and meres. Trout-fishing in 
these rocky glens is a new era in a man^s life — a living picture 
— a poem written in lines of emerald green, and set to the song 
of birds and the music of waters!’^ 

Dorrillon looked at him with a smile. 

“You are enthusiastic, Hugh!^^ 

“ No — only appreciative. Just wait till we come to the 
spot. I knew Mrs. Hyde would provide us with a goodly 
preparation for the wants of the inner man,^’ with a motion 
of his head toward the fiat wicker basket suspended across his 
shoulders by a strap, “ and you see it^s neither more nor less 
than a picnic, without the trouble of making yourself agreeable 
to the ladies. 

“ I should scarcely have supposed you found that a trouble, 
Hugh,'’^ said Dorrillon, dryly. 

“ It is not, except when one is in the mood for silence and 
solitude. You can talk to a man or not, as you please; a 
woman thinks you rude unless you keep up a perpetual chat- 
ter; ergo^ a man is the fitting companion for an expedition 
like this. Well,^^ as they left the fern-grown footpath and 
struck into a deep dell, almost perpendicular in its descent, 
and canopied over with the boughs of dense-growing trees, 
“ how do you like Beechcliff.^^'' 

“ Very much indeed — what I have seen of it.^^ 

And its inhabitants?^’ 

“ And its inhabitants!” 

“ Y^ou will like them better still when you know them 
more intimately.” 

“ Shall I?” 

“ Most of them. Our hostess — what do you think of her?” 

“ What do 1 think of Mrs. Delamere?” slowly repeated 
Dorrillon. 

“ Yes — isn’t she the most beautiful woman you ever saw in 
your life?” 

“ Yes, I think she is,” answered Dorrillon, after a mo- 
ment’s silence, as if he were turning over the idea in his brain. 

“ And remains a widow still; that’s the most puzzling part 
of it,” added Dudley. 


m 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Why puzzling?’^ asked his comrade. 

“ Oh, I don^t know; one naturally expects a heautiful widow 
to marry a second time, especially when she is young and 
wealthy as well, and besieged by a host of suitors.'’^ 

‘‘ Is that Mrs. Delamere^s case?^^ 

‘‘ Exactly. Do you wonder at it?^^ 

“ Not at all, under the circumstances.^^ 

‘‘ No one would^, 1 believe. Oh, shell marry again, in 
time. 

Mr. Dorrillon raised his eyes slowly to the face of his friend, 
and Dudley thought how pale the reflection of the green mov- 
ing leaves upon his face made him look. 

Perhaps/^ he said, “Mrs. Delareme^s married life has 
not been of a character to tempt her to court the yoke a second 
time. 'Was she happy in her first marriage?^^ 

“ 1 suppose so,"'^ said Dudley. “ I have never heard her 
speak of it. 

“ How long have you been acquainted with her?^^ asked 
Dorrillon. 

“ Two — three years. 1 met her in Switzerland three years 
ago this very summer. We Americans fraternize very readily 
in a foreign country, and a week of glacier wanderings and 
chalet explorations made us better friends than a century of 
conventional meetings in New York society would have done. 

“ Had she been a widow then?^^ 

“ Oh, yes, several years. In fact, people were always talk- 
ing about the possibility of her marrying a gentleman who was 
with their party at the time — this very Ferdinand Fairfax, who 
is to arrive at Beechcliff to-day, by the way. 

“Ah!^^ Mr. Dorrillon began to seem interested at last. 
“ She liked him, then?^^ 

“ I think she did, after a fashion. He is very handsome, 
very sprightly, very agreeable — in fact, the most delightful 
companion one can conceive for a summer tour through the 
Alps.^^ 

“ And she refused him?^^ 

“ No; it never reached that crisis. He was suddenly called 
away by the death of a relative in Baden-Baden, and their 
parties, once separated, did not again join.""^ 

“I thought she said yesterday that he accompanied her 
home from Europe this spring. 

“ He did, I believe; but a voyage from Europe nowadays, 
in one of our crack steamers, is a brief thing. They saw very 
little of each other, I imagine. I am not sorry he is coming 
to Beechclifl; he is a pleasant fellow, and if the pretty little 


IDA CHALONEK'S heart. 


233 


widow should conclude to change her condition, and marry a 
second time, 1 know of no one whom I would prefer to see win 
the prize than Ferdinand Fairfax 

“ You think there is a probability of it, then?^^ said Mr. 
Dorrillon. 

“ 1 don^t really think anything positive about it. I have 
only told you what my impressions and conjectures are. Here 
is as good a place as any to throw in our maiden lines, Dor- 
rillon — this dark bend of the stream — and now I hope you 
have a good stock of patience. 

Yes, more than my share. 

You can^t have too much for this sort of thing, said 
Dudley. 

A long silence ensued, broken only by the murmuring 
sound of the clear brown waters above and below the glassy 
pool, which, inclosed by a jutting point of moss-carpeted rock, 
formed a miniature pond, and the soft rustling of the summer 
air in the branches overhead, with now and then the occa- 
sional chirp and twitter of a bird darting through the green 
gloom. 

At length Hugh Dudley spoke. 

“ Dorrillon!’^ 

His companion started, as if from a deep reverie. 

“ Why don^t you go in for her yourself 

For whom?^^ 

‘‘For Mrs. Delamere, to be sure — the charming little 
widow. 

The cold dew broke out upon Dorrillon^s forehead — his 
upper lip twitched nervously. 

“ Yes,^^ affirmed Dudley. “ Why not?^^ 

“You donT know what you are talking about, Dudley,^^ 
said the other, shortly. 

“ But I think I do — why shouldnT I? And why, pray tell 
me, isnT your chance as good as any of them? You are a 
gentleman, well born and well looking, and not without fort- 
une. 

“ Yes.^^ 

“ And she — she^s but a woman, after all, in spite of her 
melting eyes and satin skin, and voice like a thrushes warble. 
I say, Dorrillon, why shouldn’t you marry her?” 

“ Would you have mo overshadow any bright woman’s life 
with the gloom and darkness of my own destiny?” demanded 
the other. 

“ That’s a Scotch whim, Dorrillon, nothing more.” 


234 


IDA CHALONEE’S HEAET. 


‘‘ It may be a Scotch whim — but I shall never marry/^ 

I should like to lay a pretty considerable wager on that/^ 
laughed Dudley. 

“ I am not in the betting mood/^ returned his companion, 
shortly. 

Well, if you can resist the fire of Ida Delamere^s eyes— 
She will not try to captivate me.^^ 

“ She will captivate you without any effort of trying on her 
part. 1 tell you, man, she is a born Queen of Hearts 

“ I can easily believe it, but her instinct will teach her that 
1 am not one of the vulnerable kind.^^ 

Dudley looked at his companion long and earnestly. 

I believe you would make an excellent husband for Ida 
Delamere,^^ he said. 

“ You were never more mistaken in your life,^^ was the an- 
swer, slowly and emphatically given. 

Dorrillon, I wish you would answer me one question. 

‘‘ What is it?” 

Were you ever in love?^^ 

“Yes."" 

“ Eeally and deeply?"" 

“ Eeally and deeply."" 

“ And circumstances came between you and that love?"" 

“Yes."" 

“ Forever?"" 

Dorrillon hesitated a moment before he replied : 

“ Yes, forever."" 

“ But does the future hold no new hopes or possibilities for 
you?"" 

“ Do the dead rise from the grave?"" 

“ She is dead, then. My poor fellow, I should not have 
pressed you so closely."" 

Dorrillon was leaning over the dark trout pool, his head 
resting on his hand, tlae other hand mechanically balancing 
the long, slender pole, whose line swept the black, sunless 
waters. He made no answer, and Hugh Dudley felt that he 
had gone too far. 

“ It"s a pity, too,"" he thought. “ Such a fine fellow as he 
is, and he can"t be thirty yet. I mean to ask the old admiral 
the whole story some day, if ever I live to see the Scottish 
shores again. Dead, is she? well, better a dead love than a 
living sorrow, I suppose. La reine est morte, vivelareine! 
I would back Ida Delamere's fresh, real beauty against a 
score of haunting memories at any time!"" 

When he spoke again, it was on quite another and indiffer- 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


235 


ent topic. The shore of the stream was clothed with the gold- 
gleaming trophies of hook and line, and Dudley was triumph- 
ant over their success. 

“We have already secured more than I looked for all day/^ 
he said, complacently surveying the result of their sport. 
“ Are you tired, Dorrillon?^^ 

“ Tired?’"’ laughingly echoed his companion. “ Have you 
forgotten the deer-stalking days in Scotland, to imagine that 
I am so easily played out?” 

“ Then weTl follow the stream a little further up. I know 
these haunts well enough to prophesy better luck still, if we 
are faithful to our work. ” 

It was late in the evening before the two votaries of pisca- 
torial warfare returned once more to Beechclift, wearied, yet 
enthusiastic, with dewy hair, and feet soiled with the damp 
earth, while sundry rents in their garments bore witness to the 
glens they had scrambled through, and the precipitous heights 
they had scaled. 

“ Confound it all!” ejaculated Dudley, stopping short at 
the edge of the woods, “ they are all out in the garden — can’t 
we manage to slip round by the back way? 1 don’t exactly 
care to meet them in my present guise, even by moonlight!” 

The two friends, retreating once more into the woods, 
crossed a broad, shaded avenue that ran northward from the 
house, and came on to the back piazza, entering the broad hall 
by the eastern door. 

“ We are safe for our own rooms now,” said Dudley. 
“ There, James,” to the servant, “ take these trout and have 
them put on the ice at once.” 

“ You’ve had a good day’s sport, sir,” said James, admir- 
ingly, as he lifted the lid of the basket and peered in at the 
gleaming treasures it contained. 

“ Tell Mrs. Hyde to give us a trout breakfast to-morrow 
morning,” said Dudley, as he turned toward the staircase. 

Just at that instant, as adverse fate would have it, the lower 
drawing-room door opened, and Mrs. Delamere, robed in some 
shining summer fabric that glistened like snow and silver, 
came out, leaning lightly on the arm of a tall, stylish-looking 
stranger. 

“Here the truants are,” said Ida, laughing. “We have 
missed you all day, and marveled what could possibly have be- 
come of you!” 

“ Fairfax,” ejaculated Dudley, dropping the tackle and for- 
getting his besplashed garments and disheveled hair, “ I’m 
delighted to meet you again, old fellow!” 


236 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


Mr. Dorrillon could see that the stranger was handsome, 
with a refined, delicately chiseled correctness of outline, and 
dressed in simple, good taste in evening toilet — and he fancied, 
as he stood there, that Mr. Fairfaxes eyes were fixed with a 
surprise that he construed into superciliousness upon his own 
somewhat unique appearance. 

Mrs. Delamere broke the spell of annoyance with her soft, 
clear tones. 

Mr. Fairfax, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Dorrillon, 
from Scotland. 

Mr. Fairfax bowed courteously and extended his hand. Mr. 
Dorrillon stiffly returned the salutation and did not touch the 
proffered hand. 

He was vexed to feel the advantage which spotless linen, 
glossy broadcloth, and a purple silk neck-tie, worn after the 
latest modes, gave. 

He tried to persuade himself, as he went upstairs, that there 
was something effeminate in the jeweled, scented hand that 
he had tacitly rejected. 

“ A puppy, he said to himself, a ephemera — and 

yet I would rather have had our first meeting on more equal 
grounds!’^ 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

MR. DORRILLON’S journal. 

Mr. Dorrillon^s own room was a large, spacious apart- 
ment on the second floor, its windows opening on small stone 
balconies, filled with flowers, and shaded by striped Venetian 
awnings, whose dark-green fringes swayed softly in the cool 
evening air. It was furnished after a summer-like fashion, 
with light bamboo furniture, draped with green-and-white 
chintz, and the floor was covered with China matting, while 
tall, narrow-necked vases of some rare rose-colored porcelain, 
standing on either side of the mantel, like high-shouldered 
sentinels, were filled with dried rose leaves, whose faint fra- 
grance, stealing out in odorous gusts, made the whole room 
sweet. A pretty apartment, hung round with choice line en- 
gravings, and papered in pale green, with white wavy lines, 
like the foamy edges of sea-water at high tide, it carried an 
impression of coolness with it that was very pleasant on a 
sultry evening like the present. A silver ornament, shaped 
like a cluster of lilies, from which four wax-candles shone, 
stood on the table. 

Mr. Dorrillon drew the easy-chair up beside it, and opened 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 237 

a locked portfolio which lay there with a key which he took 
from his watch-chain. 

Then he leaned back against the green-and- white cushions, 
closing his eyes for a few minutes to think. 

It was but a few minutes, and then he drew the little ala- 
baster inkstand toward him, and unclosing a small leathern- 
covered manuscript book nearly filled with close, neatly 
penned entries, he commenced to write — slowly, deliberately, 
and pausing now and then, with dreamy eyes fixed on the 
stars shining through the Venetian fringes, as if the very act 
of writing was a species of thought to him — a relief, an outlet 
to the fancies and memories that filled his heart. 

And, in a measure, it was so. Frederic Dor rill on had no 
confidants but himself and this little book. He had filled 
many like it before, and destroyed them all ; he would destroy 
this one when it was complete — yet, in the present, it was an 
indispensable companion and relief to him. 

‘‘ July 31. — At Beechclifi,^^ they ran, the words that 
flowed so swiftly, involuntarily as it were, from the point of 
the gold pen he always preferred to use. ‘‘ A summer day in 
the woods — chance memories evoked, and laid to rest again. 
Dudley came very near guessing the truth once, but my seem- 
ing frankness misled him. I am weary of dissimulation — will 
the time never come in which I can be myself again? I have 
seen my rival to-night. The house here is full of cavaliers of 
one sort and another, all of them more or less declared ad- 
mirers of Ida. Yet, until to-night, 1 have seen only one who, 
in my opinion, deserves the title of rival. His name is Fair- 
fax — he is a good-looking personage, and apparently a gentle- 
man. I think, if I were a woman, I might admire him my- 
self. It seems that he and Ida are old acquaintances, that 
people have even hazarded conjectures, before now, upon her 
probable acceptance of him, should he propose. Was it Fate 
or Providence that sent me here just now to watch the course 
of events as they develop? 

“ Ida is more beautiful than ever. Hers is a style which I 
always knew would ripen into splendid maturity. She is less 
changed, however, than I am. I should have known her any- 
where — in Turkey, on the steppes of Siberia, among the forests 
of Patagonia, disguised in a costume the most improbable. 
She looked me full in the face, laid her hand — her little vel- 
vet-soft palm— which thrilled me through and through — in 
mine, and said, as a stranger, ‘ I am glad to meet you, Mr. 
Dorrillonl^ 


238 


IDA CHALON-EB^S HEART. 


How I had dreamed of, pictured to myself, dreaded thay 
interview. But the moment I saw her face I knew there would 
be no danger of her remembering her husband. Have I then 
changed so much? Is there no trace of Eeginald Delamere 
left in the form and aspect of Frederic Dorrillon? Do we 
alter so completely as to deceive even ourselves? I look at my- 
self sometimes in the glass, and try to trace the old linea- 
ments, the familiar expressions, and know that they are no 
longer there. Sudden griefs, the shock of a great anguish — 
these have blanched men^s hair before now, and stricken them 
with a change as unaccountable as it is complete. Why should 
not a grief like mine have power to transform the human 
face? Yet it is not transformation, but growth. To all ap- 
pearances I am a man of thirty now, although I have in reality 
not yet reached my twenty-seventh year. I was a boy of 
eighteen when we parted — a beardless, dimple-chinned boy. 
My height, my hair, my complexion, even the tones of my 
voice, have changed. Eex Delamere is dead and buried, and 
Frederic Dorrillon is the phenix that has risen out of his 
ashes. 

* What a strange life mine has been now that I look back 
upon it. That bright winter morning at Ischia — shall I ever 
forget it? the morning on which, according to the received ac- 
ceptation of the world, I died! Was it a presentiment that 
made me change my mind at the very shore, with my foot 
resting on the boat^s keel, and decide not to go? They who 
believe in fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute, would term 
it so. Paolo, the tall boatman, begged to take the signoras 
place. He had a sweetheart on the other shore, poor fellow, 
but not expecting to go, he had left his upper garment behind. 
I threw him mine. 

^ I am returning directly to the inn, Paolo; you will be 
back by evening at the latest. ^ 

‘ Si, signor,^ he would be back by evening. 

‘‘Poor Paolo; I knew he was as honest as the day, and, 
consequently, I gave no second thought to the purse of money, 
the watch, and the memorandum- book which were in the inner 
pocket of the overcoat. 

“ It was a mild morning, spring-like and balmy at first. My 
single coat was sufficiently warm, and, strolling along the 
shores of the island, I did not care to return to the hotel. 
When the sudden gust came up, with waves rolling breast 
high, sky hidden by ink-black clouds, and the trees wrestling 
wildly with the gale, I took refuge in a fisherman^s deserted 
hut. It was a shelter, though not a luxurious one, and when 


IDA CHALON-ER^S HEART. 


239 


at night I neared the settlement once more, I heard two rough 
fellows^ who were hangers-on at the inn^ one telling the other 
of my death. My body, it seemed — 1 heard it with a shudder 
— had been picked U23 where the waves had washed it ashore, 
so disfigured by the rocks and the tempest which had thrown 
me against their jutting edges, that I was identified only by 
the coat I wore, the memorandum-book, and the money. My 
remains — and another shudder thrilled me here — had been 
carried to Naples, and would there be interred, subject to the 
after wishes of my friends. 

‘‘So 1 was dead and buried. The fate for which I had 
rashly wished, scarcely twenty-four hours before, had, it 
seemed, come to me according to popular report. Well, I ac- 
cepted this fate. To my wife I was theoretically dead; let me 
become practically so. She, at least, would be free. 

‘ ‘ I wandered over the lonely roads of Ischia half the 
night, forming schemes for the future and bidding the past a 
fond farewell. And when the gray morning dawned, it seemed 
to me as if 1 had actually passed out of the world into an- 
other. A new destiny had begun — a destiny which, to some 
degree, seemed positively forced upon me. 

“ In the indistinct twilight of the dawn, I was rowed across 
to Naples by a stalwart fisherman, who had never either seen 
or heard of me, as I selected the loneliest spot to cross, and 
that which was furthest from the spot I had been used to 
haunt. Had 1 learned, among the other particulars, the ex- 
act place where my supposed remains had been temporarily 
placed, I think I should have been tempted to risk all by go- 
ing to look at my corpse — by allowing my second self, alive 
and full of vigor, to take leave of my first seif, coffined and 
shrouded for the grave. As it was, however, I had but to go 
on the pilgrimage which I had set myself. 1 had no money, 
but I had youth, health, and strength. Money had never 
brought me aught but care and trouble. I would learn to do 
without it now. 

“ Let me see, what is the next prominent link which joins 
the past to the present? The moonlight night on which, 
crossing the Pyrenees, 1 happened along, just in time to rescue 
old Admiral Tyndale^s carriage and frightened servants from 
the attack of the Italian brigands. It was no special act of 
bravery. We numbered actually more than our assailants, but 
the admiral was bewildered, and his attendants nothing more 
than a pack of terrified fools. However, it proved a pass-key 
to the heart of the genial old gentleman, and nothing would 
satisfy him but 1 must accompany him to Scotland. It mat- 


240 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


tered little to me which way I went, and toward Scotland 1, 
accordingly bent my footsteps. Once there it was impossibW 
to get away. The admiral had taken a fancy into his head 
that I was not unlike his son — a promising young man, who 
had been recently killed in the Crimea at t^he siege of Inker- 
man; and from the resemblance, real or fancied, resulted my 
formal adoption as his heir. 1 was still to retain the name of 
Frederic Dorrillon, which I had taken in default of my other 
appellation, but I was to be presented everywhere as the 
adopted son of Admiral Tyndale, of Glenholme. 

Since then my life has presented no very startling occur- 
rences or peculiar incidents. 1 have continued to learn tid- 
ings of Ida every now and then. Without this poor consola- 
tion I should have perished of heart-hunger — of inanition of 
the soul. As long as I knew she was well and happy in her 
sweet, innocent fashion, I lived on, and was content — dreary 
and monotonous as my own life was, Ida^s happiness — that 
was all I expected or hoped for now. My own peace was ut- 
terly wrecked, my own life made purposeless, but she should 
not be made to suffer with me for what was, after all, wholly 
my own fault. 

“ So things transpired peacefully, until I ascertained — no 
matter how — that Mrs. Delamere, the lovely young American 
widow, who had lived abroad for so many years, was return- 
ing home, to a country seat she had purchased with the money 
her husband had left her, on some impossibly beautiful river 
in America. This fancy of hers made matters essentially 
different; 1 became restless, unsettled, and miserable, until my 
resolution of following her was taken. 

‘‘ Admiral Tyndale was glad I had a fancy for traveling. 
He wished me to see the world, as he expressed it. Alas! he 
did not know how much of this same unsatisfactory world I 
had already seen. My journey to America was taken with his 
full sanction and approval. The kind old man! His only 
regret was that 1 could not make up my mind to marry Marian 
Herondale, his niece, a red-haired Scottish lassie. ‘ 1 should 
have been pleased with the match, Fred, my boy,^ he said to 
me, in his odd, brusque way; ‘ but love goes where it is sent, 
and you can not drive Cupid ^s doves into harness. 

‘‘ Once in America I plotted a thousand ways of obtaining 
accurate intelligence of my wife-widow and her movements. 
But chance, ever my friend, stepped finally in, when I was at 
my wit^s end, in the shape of my friend Hugh Dudley. He 
was staying at Beechcliff, the prettiest place in Connecticut, 
the guest of the loveliest creature I had ever seen — I should 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


241 


say so myself when I came to meet her, and she had graciously 
extended her invitation to his friend from Scotland. How my 
heart throbbed! Dare 1 accept it, or dare I not? No, my ap- 
prehensive heart answered at first — no f But why not? argued 
cooler reason, seconded by the wild wish that rose up tumultu- 
ously in my heart. I was fairly mad, wild, frantic, to see her 
once again with my own eyes — my wife, my lost treasure, the 
gift 1 had put away from myself seven years ago. 1 7nust see 
her at all hazards if it were only for a second. I would not 
betray myself, but I was resolved to risk it. Besides, I told 
myself, I was so changed that there need be no real risk if 
only I could be master of myself. I had learned the lesson of 
self-control through years of discipline. I was quite certain 
that it would not fail me now. I accepted the invitation and 
came to Beechcliff. Shall I ever forget the moment in which 
I stood face to face with her? More beautiful than before — 
more winning than ever, my wife, whom I must not call my 
own — my treasure, of whom I had voluntarily given up the 
right. There was one dangerous moment in which love and 
passion threatened to usurp the throne of reason and common 
sense — in which I could have thrown all policy, all disguise 
to the winds and taken her to my heart, boldly claiming her 
in the sight of all the world. Taken her! Yes, taken her fair 
and waxen bloom and startled, wistful eyes, but not her heart 
nor her inner self. The body without the soul — the casket 
without its jewel. I scorned such a poor victory as that, and 
with an effort 1 retained my self-possession and remained — 
Frederic Dorrillon. 

“ One fact 1 have satisfied myself of by this experiment — I 
love Ida as well — nay, better than ever. Time has but 
strengthened my affection instead of dimming its fervor. 
Now, under these circumstances, how long may 1 reasonably 
hope to maintain my incognito 9 

It depends entirely upon myself. 

If she cares for this Fairfax — nay, why do I shrink so 
foolishly from the word — if she loves him, my mission is com- 
plete. I can be generous still, with the poor generosity that 
throws away what is worthless to itself and all around it. I 
will sacrifice my life to the shrine of her happiness. To all 
intents and purposes, I have been dead for the last seven years; 
it will be but one more determined deed to lift the dark veil 
of shadows which separates me from the world beyond, and 
pass, actually as well as nominally, into the land whence I 
shall return no more. But of this I am resolved — she shall 
declare her preference for herself. I will either live and be 


242 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


happy, or I will not live at all. Once or twice, as we stood in 
the shadows that overhung the peaceful river, she looked at 
me — she spoke to me as if — How my heart beat — how the 
blood boiled through my veins! If I could win, as Frederic 
Dorrillon, the love which never was mine as Eeginald Dela- 
mere — if she could be mine, heart and soul, why, then I might 
dare in time to tell her this secret which 1 have hidden away 
in the inner depths of my own individuality so long. 

“ I thought this might be a possibility before 1 saw her lean- 
ing on Fairfaxes arm to-night, her cheeks glowing, and her 
eyes full of that limpid softness 1 have watched so many a 
time. Now it seems far off and improbable. I have hoped 
in vain. It is useless to think of what might have been. But 
still I can not tear myself away from the morbid contempla- 
tion of my own misery. I am like the convicted prisoner wait- 
ing to hear his sentence of condemnation from the lips of the 
judge, though he already knows perfectly well what it will be. 
There is a fascination in being near her — in hearing the tones 
of her voice, even in sweet words spoken to others, which 1 
can not voluntarily forego. And I will not. There are few 
enough blissful drops in my cup of joy — it would be madness 
for me to throw them away when they sparkle at my very 
lips!^^ 

So far, Frederic Dorillon had written, when, he folded up 
the book, replaced it once again in the portfolio, and locked 
the la,tter slowly and mechanically. And when he leaned 
back once again in the chair, pressing his hand to his forehead, 
as if wearied and exhausted, the white light from the wax-can- 
dles shone upon a face strangely worn and haggard. 

This life of constant self-repression and watchfulness,^^ 
he murmured, almost under his breath, “it is wearing me 
out. When will it end?^^ 

The hours waned by, and still he sat there, the candles burn- 
ing away in the silver sockets, and the rose leaves filling the 
air with faint sweetness — sat there in his own house, with his 
own wife separated from him but a few doors and corridors, 
as utterly alone as if he had been a sheeted ghost risen up 
from the dead! 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

LOOKING INTO HER OWN HEART. 

The days at Beechcliff went by, one by one, like the pleas* 
.ant lapses of a dream. 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


243 


There were boating-parties, picnit3 groupings, croquet 
matches, and sometimes, when the sultry August heats seemed 
to put anything like active exertion out of the question, there 
were long days spent under the shadow of the elm-trees on the 
lawn, with the humming of bees, and the odor from the rose 
gardens weaving summer visions around them. The guests 
lingered on, many of them beyond the limits originally ap- 
pointed for their stay. There was but little change or altera- 
tion in their number, with the exception of Victoria Lynd- 
hurst and her uncle, who had left rather abruptly. 

Mr. Dudley had returned to the practice of his profession 
in New York; but, somewhat to his surprise, Mr. Frederic 
Dorrillon had concluded to prolong his stay a few days. 

“ All right, Fred,^^ said the lawyer, with a knowing little 
nod of the head. “ There are many more disagreeable places 
to stay at than Beech cliff. 

Two among the party of guests were as uninterruptedly 
happy as it is in the nature of humanity to be — Mr. Cleve and 
Angie Gresham. The suit of the former had met with the 
full sanction and approval of Mr. and Mrs. Gresham; in fact, 
Mrs. Gresham was not a little flattered and delighted at the 
prospect of her fair little daughter's good fortune. 

“ I've lived a contented, hard-working life aU my days," 
she said, but that's no reason my daughter should; and, 
only to think of it, they say he has a clear income of six thou- 
sand a year!" 

‘‘ They say, my dear," said the Reverend Mr. Gresham, 
“ that he is a young man of good character and excellent 
moral principles, which is more to the pohit." 

That is a matter of course," said his wife. 

“ It is not always a matter of course, Selina." 

‘‘ Well, at all events, it's an excellent match for the child; 
and I do wonder what Geoffrey and Eleanor will say when we 
write the news to them?" 

For the rector's wife was in a flutter of delicious excitement 
at the not very distant prospect of a wedding at Deepdale, 
which should come up to her ideas of what a wedding should 
be. Eleanor had been quietly married, as befitted her modest 
alliance and not very pecuniarily plenteous circumstances; 
but Angie's wedding would be a very different thing, the 
mother mused, with visions of orange-flowers, white rep silk 
at four dollars a yard, and a bridal cake which should be like 
unto a segment of the White Mountains in its snowy splendor 
of ornamentations. 

“ Angie will make a pretty bride," thought Mrs. Gresham, 


244 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


complacently. ‘‘ Girl» with fair skins and blue eyes always 
do look well in white I’"’ 

As for Mrs. Delamere, she felt herself being gradually 
drawn more and more into a region of enchanted dream-life — 
how, and why, she could not have explained to herself, though 
she felt the mystic influence. What was it? In what did it 
consist? Was Beechcliff under a spell, or was it her own 
heart changing unconsciously within her? 

Mr. Dorrillon and Ferdinand Fairfax haunted her footsteps 
with persistent attention, as cavaliers of the olden time might 
have kept jealous watch over some precious jewel of cherished 
maidenhood. Ida felt it, and yet she did not resent it — on the 
contrary, there was a shy pride in it which she would not have 
acknowledged even to her own self. 

But Ida knew that the world was changing to her — nor did 
she wish that aught should be different. It was very sweet 
and strange, and it was as yet a mystery to her. 

Angie,^^ she said, one night, to the fair-haired fiancee^ 
after they had gone upstairs together and were brushing out 
their hair in that demi-toilet of white muslin and lace which 
is so much prettier than the formal draperies of full dress, 

you are very happy, are you not?^^ 

‘‘Yes, very,^^ Angie answered, fervently. 

“ Always?^^ 

“Always, Ida.^^ 

Mrs. Delamere, with her silky black hair hanging loosely 
over her shoulders and the pearl-backed brush glimmering 
through its jetty confusion, looked musingly at Angie. 

“ What is it like, Angie, this love that a woman feels to- 
ward the man who is to be all in all to her? Tell me.^^ 

“ Oh, Ida,^^ reproached Angie, gently, “ did not you know 
it when you were engaged to Kex?’^ 

“ I was not engaged to him more than twenty minutes, you 
know, Angie, said Ida, laughing, although a faint, red tinge 
came to her cheek. 

“ But I shall not feel any differently after I am married, 
Ida.^^ 

“ Do not be too sure of that, Angie. 

“ I could not love Waverley any more, Ida — of that I am 
quite certain. 

“ But you may love him less.^^ 

“ No.^^ Angie shook the golden, do wnf alien masses quite 
resolutely. “ That can not possibly be. What made you 
think of such a thing, Ida?^^ 

“ I donT know; the instinct of making one^s self disagreea- 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. ' 245 

ble, I suppose. But you haven told me yet, Angie, what I 
asked you.'’^ 

“ As if you did not know already. 

Ida laid down her brush, and taking Angie’s hands in hers 
drew the girl to a low seat close by her side. 

“ But I would like to see what this love-dream is like, 
through your eyes, just once, my darling. How does he look 
to you?” 

Angie laid her blushing cheek on Ida’s shoulder, as she re- 
plied in low, scarce audible tones: 

“ The noblest man in all the world — the best — the hand- 
somest! There is no one like him in my eyes — he stands as 
high above the rest of his species as a prince might tower above 
a herd of low-born peasants.” 

“ I thought so,” murmured Ida, with kindling eyes. “ I 
knew it! Tell me more, Angie — do you feel his presence 
thrilling through your veins, even when you do not see or hear 
him? Does the very touch of his hand make the blood tingle in 
your pulses?” 

‘‘ Ida,” exclaimed the girl, raising her head, “ did you feel 
so toward Kex?” 

‘‘ Then I am right?” 

“ Yes, you are right.” 

“ Go on, Angie, I am listening. ” 

‘ ‘ And the time seems long when he is away. I count the 
moments and the hours, he is all the clock I have, yet when 
he is by my side the seconds are winged and go too fast!” 

Ida bent over and pressed her warm, soft lips to Angie’s 
cheek. 

“ I am not mistaken, Angie,” she said; ‘‘ it is love that — 
that you feel. Love! Oh, Angie, what a mystery it is — what 
a grand, absorbing, glorious thing, the blossoming of life’s 
century plant, which fills the world with glory once, and only 
once!” 

Her melting, dark eyes were humid with tears, her face was 
strangely beautiful, as Angie looked shyly up into its pure, 
perfect lines. 

‘‘ Oh, Ida!” she whispered, “ you must have loved him so 
tenderly, and he is gone from you forever! It comes to me 
now as it never came before, the awful horror of widowhood !” 

Ida sat silent, her fingers restlessly weaving themselves in 
and out of a long, golden tress which hung over Angie’s 
cheek. 

‘‘God keep me from it!” murmured the young girl, her 
sympathetic nature thrilled for the other’s sake. 


/' 


246 IDA CHALONEE^S HEART. 

“ There is a widowhood of the heart which is worse than the 
other, Angie/^ slowly returned Ida, without raising her eyes. 

God keep you from that, child!"^ 

“ What do you mean, Ida?^^ 

“ Do you see that clock?^^ said Ida, with a sudden return 
of laughing vivacity, as she pointed up to a small marble time- 
piece on the wall beyond. “ Past one o^clock, and you are to 
be up at five to-morrow morning, to make one of the boating- 
party. It will be a clear day. Do you see how vividly the 
stars glow through the purple of the night sky?^^ 

“ I did not know it was so late,” said Angie, penitently, as 
she rose and gathered up her little paraphernalia of toilet be- 
longings. “You are going with us, Ida?” 

“ Yes, I promised Mr. Fairfax.” 

“Good-night, Ida.” 

“ Good-night, Angie.” 

But, late as it was, Mrs. Delamere did not seek her couch j 

after Angelina Gresham had left her. She still sat, with her j 

black hair rippling loosely over her shoulders, and her small j 
hands clasped in her lap, thinking: “It is so strange,” she i 

murmured to herself. “ I had fancied that my life would \ 

have passed away without this wondrous key-note of my nat- i 
ure ever being struck, and now — hitherto I have merely ex- 
isted — now I am beginning to live. There is no use in will- 
fully blinding myself further. I do love him; I do. Yet not 
for worlds would I have him read the secret of my heart, un- 
til—” 

And Ida paused in her disconnected reverie, with cheeks 
burning and crimsoned. She could not give her love un- 
sought — she could not even make a sign of what lay in her 
heart. No, she must drink that bitterest cup of womanhood, 
waiting, and doubt, and tremulous uncertainty. 

The nature which had lain dormant so long was roused at 
length at the touch of the arch-magician — Love. Ida knew it 
and felt it, yet she was powerless to decide her own fate. 

Of all created beings, a woman can be the happiest or the 
most miserable. 

She rose up and went to the window, where the fair elm- i 
shadowed lawns of Beechcliff lay before her in the starlight, 
the fountain glimmering faintly, and the scent of roses weigh- |- 

ing down the air with spice. In the distance lay hills of i’ 

wooded upland, and the murmurous sound of the river in the 
valley rose up like an uiisyllabled hymn in the silence of the 
midsummer night. Truly, it was a fair domain, and one of [ 
which any woman’s heart might be proud. 


IDA CHALONER^’S HEART. 247 

Yet Ida Delamere turned away from its contemplation with 
a low sigh. 

“ 1 would give it all — all/^ she murmured, passionately, 
“to be loved! 1 would exchange it for a cottage on the 
dreariest hill in the world, with his heart to bear me com- 
pany. 

The little fluttering wild bird — Love — was caught at last. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE PICHIC IH THE WOODS. 

“Ida! Ida! where are you.^ We are all ready — make 
haste !’^ 

Helena Fairfax^'s sweet, clear voice rang from the lawn in 
front of the portico, as she stood swinging her white parasol 
to and fro, the rest of the party making their way down the 
shelving pathway which led to the boat-house on the river’s 
edge. Ida had returned to the house to give one last order to 
Mrs. Hyde about the refreshments which w^i-e to be sent by 
the overland route to meet them at a mMs-carpeted grove 
some twelve or fifteen miles up the river. 

“ In a minute, Helena; don’t wait. I will overtake you.’^ 

Miss Fairfax looked laughingly at her brother who stood by 
her side. 

“ Certainly we shall wait,” he said, quietly. 

Ida was hurrying through the hall, her round hat hanging 
by its white ribbons from her arm, when, as she passed the 
half-open library door, she saw a figure stretched listlessly on 
the sofa that filled the deep bay-window. She stopped sud- 
denly. 

“Mr. Dorrillon!” 

“ Mrs. Delamere!” 

“ Can it be possible that this is you?” 

“You see it for yourself, Mrs. Delamere,” was the some- 
what indifferently spoken response. 

“ But you are to be one of our party to-day?” she asked, 
eagerly. 

“ I think not.” 

“ Why?” 

The word was spoken quickly, and perhaps with a spice of 
imperiousness in its tone. Mr. Dorrillon closed his book and 
looked up, the shadow of a smile hovering round his lips, as 
if he liked to defy this imperative mood. 

“ Because I have not yet been asked.” 

“ Did you think it necessary to await a formal invitation?’^ 


248 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


she asked, relentlessly tearing into pieces a rose which she 
wore at her belt, while two round crimson spots glowed on 
her cheeks. 

I am not in the habit of volunteering my society un- 
asked. 

You want me to invite you now?’^ 

As you please, Mrs. Delamere.^’ 

You take advantage of my being your hostess, Mr. Dor- 
rillon.^^ 

‘‘ I take advantage of nothing, he answered, slowly, his 
eyes fixed on her fiushed, beautiful face. “ There are various 
ways of enjoying one^s self, and I dare say I shall pass a very 
pleasant day in the companionship of the books in your 
library. 

“ Then you do not wish to go?^^ 

‘‘ Nay, you are hardly logical now. Did I say that I did not 
wish to go?^^ 

‘‘ You left me to infer it.'’^ 

Mr. Dorrillon lifted his eyebrows slightly. 

“ Are we not verging on verbal battle for a very insignifi- 
cant matter, Mrs. Delamere?^^ he asked. 

Ida did not answer directly. 

“ Will you go with us, Mr. Dorrillon?^ ^ she asked, speaking 
as if the words were wrung from her against her will. 

Do you wish me to go?^^ he questioned, slowly, and 
watching her face with keen eyes of inquiry. 

‘‘ I do wish you to go,^’ she said, in a low voice; and scarce- 
ly looking up from the fiower-stem in her hand. 

He rose at once. 

“ Then I shall be happy to accompany you, although I 
have a misgiving that your invitation is forced from you from 
a sense of duty merely. 

“ I am not going to have all my inner motives dissected for 
your benefit, said Ida, a little haughtily. ‘‘We must make 
haste; the rest are at the river-side by this time.^^ 

“ Will you take my arm?^^ 

“ No — I would rather not.^^ 

At the same instant Mr. Fairfax, who had been lounging on 
a rustic chair on the portico, rose and advanced into view as 
they passed through the door. 

“ At last,^^ he said, gayly. Mr. Dorrillon^s keen glance, 
first at Fairfax and then at Ida, spoke plainly enough the 
thoughts that were in his mind. “ It was because you made 
sure of this man^s companionship that you refused to accept 
the offer of my arm!""^ 


IDA CHA loner’s HEART. 249 

Ida was hotly indignant with herself, for the blood rose in 
a vivid carmine torrent to her cheeks as she met his eyes. 

He smiled slightly, and turned to Miss Fairfax. 

“ Will you allow me to be your escort to the river-side. Miss 
Helena?’’ 

She took his arm at once, and they walked a little in ad- 
vance of the others to join the impatient group below. 

Helena Fairfax was a soft-eyed, gentle-looking girl, some 
four- or five-and-twenty, with glossy hair, and features which, 
if not strictly regular, were exceedingly pleasing. She liked 
Mr. Horrillon, and admired him, and was consequently not ill 
pleased with the fate which had temporarily assigned him to 
her for a companion. 

The party were detailed oS into two large pleasure-boats, 
cushioned with crimson moreen, and covered with awnings, 
bound with vivid scarlet, and Horrillon observed, not without 
that peculiar expression of his eyes which could hardly be de- 
fined either as a smile or a frown, that Ferdinand Fairfax 
maneuvered very skillfully to place Mrs. Helamere and him- 
self in the last unoccupied seat of the first craft. 

Mrs. Helamere looked round a little uneasily. 

1 thought we were going in the other boat,” she said. 

Fairfax bit his lip, but rose promptly in the boat. 

Just as you would prefer; shall we exchange?” 

Ida looked up and met Horrillon’s eyes fixed full upon her. 

‘‘ No,” she said, resolutely, “ I choose to remain here.” 

And Mr. Horrillon and Miss Fairfax took their places in 
the second boat. 

It was a long, lovely row, in the dewy coolness of the sum- 
mer morning, the boatmen keeping in the shadows of the 
western shore, where the plash of the oars kept time to the 
warbling of the birds and the murmuring of insects, when- 
ever a momentary pause in the conversation allowed time to 
listen to this under-current of Nature’s orchestra; and it was 
nearly noon when they landed at the grove which was their 
destination. 

The commissary department had arrived before them, and 
the impromptu table, consisting of a satin damask cloth, 
spread on the greensward in the most level spot, was ready, 
with its display of cold chicken, daintily dressed salads, 
tongues, ham, cake, and jellies. A glass pail stood in the 
middle, filled with golden slices of lemon, lumps of ice, and 
claret — tinted liquid — Mrs. Hyde’s matchless lemonade — and 
the wines were awaiting summons, in their ice-pails, among 
the bushes near at hand. 


250 


IBA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


‘‘Is it very unromantic to be hungry, I wonder ques- 
tioned Angie of Mr. Cleve. 

“ Not at all/’ said Ida, who, as hostess, had walked prompt- 
ly to the head of the sylvan table. “We must eat first, to 
sustain fainting nature, and then we will be romantic at our 
leisure. Come, all of you, 1 shall give no second invitation. 

“ Nor any special one?^^ asked Mr. Dorrillon, quietly. 

“ Nor any special one,^^ said Ida. “ What splendid peaches 
these are! 1 told Mrs. Hyde to be sure and pick out the nicest 
ones on the south wall — and there are some grapes, too, some- 
t\^here. 

“ They are on the ice, ma’am/’ said James, who was pre- 
siding as temporary butler. “ 1 will bring them on with the 
wine. 

A merrier party could hardly have convened than the group 
whose voices now made the woodland shadows musical with 
gay words and laughter, provoked by almost nothing. Every 
one was in a good humor, and every one was determined to be 
pleased, consequently the impromptu banquet “ went off 
splendidly. 

No sooner was the cloth removed than the croquet arches 
were promptly installed on the level spot it had partially occu- 
pied, and those who had not been smitten by the croquet 
mania wandered off, in cozy Ute-d-tetes, into the woods to en- 
joy the shade and coolness, and explore the solitudes for the 
few wild flowers which were still in bloom, party-colored 
mosses, and ferns. 

Mr. Dorrillon had watched Fairfax and Mrs. Delamere slow- 
ly sauntering down one of the silent, leafy aisles, until a 
growth of alder bushes hid them from his view, and so intent 
was his absorb tion that his companion spoke twice to him be- 
fore he heard her. 

“ I beg your pardon. Miss Fairfax. Were you addressing 
me?^^ 

“ I spoke to you twice laughed Helena, who was too 
good-natured to take offense at. any such casual affront to her 
self-esteem. 

Dorrillon bit his lips. “ I must have been dreaming! Will 
you be so indulgent as to repeat your remark a third time?^^ 

“It is hardly original enough to^ear such frequent repeti- 
tion,^^ said Helen^ demurely. “ However, since such is your 
wish you shall lave the benefit of it. DonT you think the 
day is growing very warm?’ ^ 

“ I do most emphatically. Shall we look for a cooler 
place?” 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


251 


“ Where shall we find it?^^ asked Helena, dubiously. 

In the woods, I dare say. At least we shall have the sat- 
isfaction of seeking for it, unless you prefer playing at cro- 
quet 

“ I detest croquet/^ said Helena, with energetic earnest- 
ness. 

“ So do I. Let us shake hands upon it!’^ 

And on this mutual confession of faith, Mr. Dorrillon and 
Miss Fairfax strolled down toward the river, whose blue, rip- 
pling current gave at least an impression of coolness, if not its 
actual reality. 

They talked idly on one subject or another, with long 
silences between, both evidently preoccupied, until at length 
Helena Fairfax looked up with an abrupt laugh, and said: ' 

I must seem strangely absent-minded to you, Mr. Dor- 
rillon, but my thoughts are full to-day.'’^ 

‘‘ Are they?^^ 

“ Yes; and not of myself. 

“ 1 should easily have imagined that. Miss Fairfax, without 
being told. I do not think you are a selfish person. 

Helena looked wistfully at him. 

I wish I dared tell you what it is, Mr. Dorrillon; 1 would 
fain have the courage to share my hopes and fears with some 
one else. 

‘‘ Does it require so much courage to confide in me?^^ he 
asked, smiling. 

“ My impression is that it does not,^^ she answered, in the 
same tone. 

‘‘ Have the goodness, then, to act upon your impression. 

“We have been very good friends,’^ said Helena, frankly, 
“ and I think I might tell you.^^ 

“ You think you might tell me? Are you not sure? And 
what does this mighty mystery of preamble foretell? I can 
guess 

“ Guess, then,^^ she said. 

“You are going to be married 

“Ho, I am not; but possibly some one else is. You are 
getting ‘ warm,'’ as the children say/’ 

“ Some one else? Your particular friend, perhaps, to whom 
you write long, double-sheet letters, and send embroidery pat - 
terns by every mail.” 

“ Some one nearer and dearer than that,” persisted Helena, 
shaking her head. 

“ I can’t guess; you will have to tell me.” 

“ Well, then, it is my brother?” 


252 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEART. 


Your brother 

Frederic Dorrillon echoed the words, quite unaware that he 
was doing so. In that one instant he felt that his fate was 
sealed; he saw the far-off shining gates of a fancied happiness 
closing on him forever; he saw Ida standing at the flower- 
wreathed altar with this tall, well-featured Ferdinand Fairfax 
by her side, and caught himself wondering if the lonely, 
nameless grave — his grave — would cast a shadow on her radi- 
ant path if she knew of it. If! And in the hushed silence. of 
the woods a little bird broke into a golden rivulet of song just 
in time to warn him that he must speak — that Helena Fair- 
faxes expectant eyes were on him. 

‘‘ So he is to be married — your brotherpee he said, hoarsely. 

“ Now you are getting on too fast,^’ she rejoined, laughing 
a little nervously. “ I did not say he was to be married; I 
said it was possible that he might be. 

“ Then— 

Frederic Dorrillon knew it was not an honorable thing to 
do; but, for the life of him, he could not have repressed the 
question burning on his lips if Helena had not anticipated it 
by interrupting him. 

“ He has not yet proposed; but we, brother and sister, are 
all in all to each other, Mr. Dorrillon, and Ferdinand tells 
me everything. He said to one this morning that he should 
ask her to be his wife to-day. He can not endure the suspense 
any longer, nor is there any reason that he should. He has 
known her a long time, you know. 

“Her?’^ 

“Ida.^^ 

Mr. Dorrillon sat watching the azure current of the river, 
stunned, as it were, and hardly alive to what was going on 
around him. Presently Helena Fairfax again spoke, in a 
low, earnest voice, stirred by emotion. 

So, you see, it is an important day to Ferdinand — a day 
of destiny. I have been thinking of him all day; I am think- 
ing of him now. Heaven grant his suit may prosper! You 
see, Mr. Dorrillon, he has loved her so long, so tenderly. 
Mr. Dorrillon did not speak, but he turned his face, pale and 
haggard, a trifle toward her; and Helena, with her heart too 
full of her subject to take heed of aught else, went eagerly on. 
It was a relief to open her thoughts to another — to be able to 
speak freely on this all-engrossing topic. ‘‘ And I do not mar- 
vel at it, Mr. Dorrillon; she is so sweet, so beautiful. I can see 
that even with my woman ^s eyes. I can understand the spelj 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


253 


which she enchants people with. I am half in love with her 
myself. I don^t wonder that Ferdinand is infatuated. 

God bless you for that!^^ Mr. Dorrillon leaned forward and 
took Helena Fairfax’s hand in his. She started to feel how icy 
cold its clasp was. 

“ I mean/^ he added, suddenly roused to a sense of his own 
imprudence, “it is so unusual to see one woman who ap- 
preciates another — it is so generous. ” 

“ Not so unusual as you gentlemen suppose,’^ said Helena, 
standing up as the champion of her sex. “ On the contrary, 
it is quite frequent.’^ 

“ And he will propose to-day~your brother?” 

“ He told me that he should. Oh, Mr. Dorrillon, do you 
wonder that I am excited and absorbed, when so much — oh, 
so much of Ferdinand^s destiny hangs upon the syllable to be 
spoken this day from a woman’s lips?” 

“ He loves her very dearly then?” 

“ As dearly as his own life. It has not been the brief pas- 
sion of a few weeks with him; it has matured for years. He 
loved her when he first saw her, and he has loved her ever 
since!” 

“It is strange,” thought Dorrillon, “ what a power this 
woman has for throwing the chains of her fascinations over 
every one — for entrancing them, with or without their own 
will. Cleopatra of Egypt was such a one, and so was the 
beautiful Mary of Scotland. It is a gift — a spell — and Heaven 
knows whether it is to be considered a blessing or a curse!” 

As these thoughts passed through his mind, he spoke, in 
answer to Helena’s words: 

“ He would be a good husband to her, then, if—” 

“ If she accepts him! The best and truest husband in the 
world!” 

“ Do you suppose they would be happy?” 

He knew not what impulse led him on to ask these ques- 
tions. It seemed as if the words escaped his lips independent- 
ly of his own volition, and Helena Fairfax answered him as 
frankly as he had spoken. 

“ I do not know how any woman could help being happy as 
Ferdinand’s wife!” 

Mr. Dorrillon rose suddenly. 

“ Shall we join the croquet-party? They will be wondering 
what has become of us. ” 

He felt that he could no longer sit idly there, asking and 
answering questions — he must be alone, to look this coming 


254 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAKT. 


calamity full in the face. Solitude — silence — without these 
he should go mad. 

Miss Fairfax wondered at his leaving her so abruptly when 
they reached the level open glade, where the croquet balls 
were clicking merrily against one another, and gay voices 
echoed, half a dozen at once. She could not account for this 
conduct, so much at variance with the usual calm, polished 
courtesy of his manner. Could she in any way have offended 
him? she asked herself, but her memory bore record of no 
word or look which could possibly hav^e been unfavorably con- 
strued. 

‘‘ It must have been my own imagination,^^ thought Helena 
Fairfax, and then her mind went back to the all-engrossing 
subject of her brother and Mrs. Delamere. ‘‘ I wonder what 
sort of a man Ida’s first husband was?^’ she mused. “ He 
lived less than a year after their marriage, I have heard — but 
it is very strauge that no one ever hears her speak of him. If 
their married life was harmonious it is natural that she should 
wish to form another and a similar tie — if not, all the more 
reason that she should taste the cup of happiness so long with- 
held from her lips. Oh, I hope — I lioi^e she loves Ferdinand!’^ 

And what was Frederic JDorrillon thinking, as he lay all 
alone in the silence of the loveliest, most tangled spot in all 
those woods, his forehead pressed against the cool turf, his 
eyes closed to shut out the surrounding world — all alone with 
the jealous strife that tore his heart with relentless cruelty? 
He had foreseen this moment for years; he had thought him- 
self daily to contemplate it as not only a possibility but a 
probability. Yet, now, when it was close upon him, he shrunk 
from it with a dread and horror past all description. 

‘‘Anything but that!^^ he moaned, in strange, hoarse ac- 
cents. “ Oh, merciful Father, anything but that! I could 
have lived without her love, but I can not bear to know that 
it is given to another! I never knew how dearly I loved her 
before! I never knew how closely she was treasured in my 
heart! Ida! my wife — mine! and mine only! How can I let 
her go? It is false! She has not gone — she shall not! I will 
keep her for myself if — 

And then a better and gentler mood came over him. 

“ I have given her up for her own sake. To her I am dead 
and buried. Shall I come back to life only to make her 
wretched — to overshadow her future for the second time? Has 
experience taught me no wisdom? Oh, better far that I had 
perished when the little boat went down in the stormy waves 
off Ischia than to live to be such a coward and a villain as this! 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


255 


Let her be happy in her own way, whatever that is, and when 
once I know that she is peaceful in the sunshine of a more 
dearly treasured love than mine, there are ways enough of 
passing quietly out of this world in which I have dwelt, no 
better than a mere disembodied spirit, for the last seven years. 
She shall be pure and sinless before both God and man — my 
little Ida — whatever becomes of me!^^ 

When the picnic-party assembled together, just after sunset, 
to set out upon their homeward way, one of the number was 
missing. 

“ Where is Dorrillon?^’ inquired Mr. Oarisforde, who was 
mentally numbering up the boat- loads. 

James, the servant, turning round from his task of packing 
the silver, glass, and china that had been used in the wagon 
which was to take them home replied: 

If you please, sir, he has walked home.’^ 

“ Walked home!^’ echoed Oarisforde. “ What, fifteen miles 
on such a broiling afternoon as this!^^ 

“Yes, sir. I offered to row him myself, or to drive him 
home. There^s plenty of room in the wagon, and I could 
have gone a little earlier just as well as not; but he said he 
liked the walk, and I was to say he had just remembered some 
letters that must be written this evening.^’ 

“ It’s too bad,” said Angie Gresham, innocently; while Mr. 
Cleve observed, dryly: 

“I’m very glad I haven’t any such pressing correspond- 
ence.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A DECLARATIOI^^ OF LOVE. 

Perhaps Mr. Dorrillon had really some very important let- 
ters to write, for when, toward ten o’clock that night. Miss 
Fairfax came into the library, he was sitting at the desk, with 
an open portfolio beside him, and his face very pale, with 
weariness or some other strong motive cause. 

Helena started as she saw him; she had not expected to find 
any one in the library, which was generally deserted at that 
time in the evening. 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Dorrillon. Am I disturbing 
you?” 

“ Not in the least. Miss Fairfax,” he answered, courteously. 
“ Can I do anything for you?” 

“ No, thank you. I only came to get a book or two which 
belong to me. ” 


256 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Mr. Dorrillon gazed earnestly at her. The fresh color had 
died away from her cheek, and her eyes were dull and heavy. 

“Are you ill. Miss Fairfax?^ ^ he asked, after a minute^s 
silence. 

“ No, l^m not ill, only — only — I have told you so much, 
Mr. Dorrillon, that I may as well tell you the rest. We are 
going away to-morrow morning. 

“ Going away?^^ 

He asked no question in words, but his voice implied it, and 
she answered the mute inquiry. 

“ Y^; she has rejected Ferdinand. 

Mr. Uorrillon was silent. He could not have spoken, had 
his life depended on the utterance of a single syllable, but 
Helena interpreted his silence after her own ideas, and went 
hurriedly on: 

“ Yes, it is all over now — poor, poor Ferdinand! She was 
very sweet and gentle, but she told him ‘ No ^ resolutely. She 
should never marry again; she did not love him, though she 
respected him, and all that sort of thing. We had not dared 
hope much, and yet — well, it^s no use now thinking what 
might have been. She is the only woman who could have 
made Ferdinand happy; but even now I can’t be as angry with 
her as I try to be. Perhaps Ferdinand was too precipitate in 
speaking to her. 1 told him not to hurry matters too much, 
but he could not endure the suspense. Men are naturally im- 
patient, I believe,” added poor Helena, with a faint smile. 
“ But 1 have a great deal to do in packing up to-night, and 
I ^lust not stand here talking. Good-night, Mr. Dorrillon, 
and good-bye. ” 

She held out her hand. He took it, scarcely knowing what 
he did. 

“ Believe me. Miss Fairfax, your brother has my sympa- 
thy,” he said. “ There is no one — no one in all the world 
who can know better than I how much he has lost.” 

So Helena Fairfax, marveling at the fervor of his words, 
went away, and he never saw her more. 

When she was gone, Dorrillon rose and paced up and down 
the library, with a tumult of feelings warring at his heart. 
He could not analyze or define them; but, first and foremost, 
he felt the great weight of terror lifted from his life. Her 
heart was not given away — it might yet be his own. He had 
stood aside and given his rival a fair chancdr— now there was 
no earthly power which should keep him from making one 
more effort to win the treasure. A new hope had sprung into 
his breast, a new courage inspired him. Let Keginald Dela- 


IDA CFA loner’s HEART. 


257 


mere sleep in his quiet grave in the dreary old city of Naples 
— Frederic Dorrillon should inherit all the happiness which 
was not destined to be his. 

If Ida only loved him! He drew back from the faint chill 
of doubt and fear which came creeping into his veins; he reso- 
lutely turned away from beholding any possibility adverse to 
his own wishes. Fortune was not to be wooed by craven trem- 
bler. He had hesitated long enough. The time for action 
had come at last. 

He drew out his watch and glanced at it. Fifteen minutes 
past ten; he ground his teeth together to see how late it was. 
They were all wearied with the unusual fatigue of the day in 
the woods — would probably have retired early — and he must 
live through another night in ignorance of his fate. The seven 
years through which he had passed seemed as nothing to him 
in comparison with these hours that lay before him. 

He rang the bell; it was answered by James. 

‘‘ Have the ladies all gone upstairs, Jarnes?’^ 

Oh, yes, sir, long ago,” answered James, with the air of 
one who feels himself to be a fully competent witness. 

There’s been nobody in the drawing-room this half an hour, 
sir, but Mr. Carisforde, and he’s been fast asleeji, with his 
handkerchief pulled over his face, and now he’s gone up to 
his bedroom, and Mrs. Hyde, sir, she’s a-straightening up a 
little bit, just before she puts out the lights. Mrs. Hyde 
always likes to do such things herself — she’s dreadful particu- 
lar, sir!” 

Very well,” answered Dorrillon, rather laconically; ‘‘ you 
may go.” 

James went accordingly, and Dorrillon, with a long, heavy 
sigh, took out his cigar-case, that universal panacea for all the 
troubles of mankind, and selected a weed. 

“As I can’t sleep,” he thought, “ I may as well have a 
cigar on the lawn this hot night. ” 

He went out at the eastern door, and, crossing the flower 
borders, took his way toward a rustic seat which was placed 
under an elm-tree at no very great distance from the fountain, 
whose pyramidal shape of diamond rain glimmered deliciously 
cool in the glow of the sultry August evening. 

Overhead the stars were burning with something of the 
vividness and color one sees in the tropics, and the air, soft 
and balmy, scarcely stirred the overhanging boughs of the 
elms, as Frederic Dorrillon stood there silently drinking in the 
stillness and beauty of the scene, himself quite concealed by 

9 


258 IDA CHALOl^rEn^S heart. 

the black circle of shadows in which his form seemed to be 
absorbed. 

Suddenly he started and looked around. The little wire 
gate which led through a winding avenue of shrubbery to the 
rose garden was opened, and figures emerged from the green 
gloom, their light summer dresses floating over the grass as 
they went. 

“ Mrs. Hyde is early to-night, said Angie Gresham’s voice. 
“ See, the drawing-rooms are already darkened. Are you not 
coming in, Ida?” for one of the figures had paused close to 
the edge of the marble basin into which the waters of the 
fountain fell with a cool, tinkling drip. 

Not just yet, Angie; it is so warm in-doors. 

“But you said you were so tired!” 

“ So I am; and that is the reason I mean to rest out here 
with the stars and the delicious air and the dew?” 

“ You will take cold.” 

“No, I shall not. 1 never took cold in my life.” 

“ Shall I stay with you, Ida?” 

“ What for? No, no, little one, I had rather be by myself 
for awhile. Go in; you will be pale to-morrow, and 1 shall 
fall under the ban of Mr. Oleve’s most solemn displeasure.” 

Angie laughed aiid ran up the portico steps, disappearing 
into the lighted door-way as swiftly as if she had been gifted 
with wings instead of little slippered feet, while Ida Delamere 
remained alone,, and apparently immovable — one hand, on 
which the precious stones sparkled in the starbeams, resting 
on the rim of the marble basin. 

Frederic Dorrillon’s heart throbbed high. Fate had placed 
within his grasp the opportunity for which he had so ardently 
longed. Ida was near him, and they were alone, and all the 
sweet, softening influences of nature were marshaled on his 
side. What strange faint-heartedness was it which, even at 
this auspicious moment, would fain have bid him stand mo- 
tionless in the shadow of the elm boughs, and let the tide of 
his life ebb by, never again to be overtaken? Perhaps it was 
the natural reaction of the long chain of consequences, either 
for good or evil, which hung on the issues of that moment; 
but Frederic Dorrillon was not one to yield to any temporary 
weakness. He put aside the low-hanging boughs of the tree, 
and advanced with a calm, determined step into the starlit 
lawn. 

Ida turned round with an involuntary start as the sound of 
nearing footsteps fell on her ear, but she did not move from 
her position. 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


259 


Mr. Dorrillon, you are out late to-night. 

The sultry atmosphere of the house was too cramped, 
Mrs. Delamere; I could not breathe there. 

“ It is deliciously cool and fresh out here,'^’’ 

Yes, it is.^^ 

How strange it seemed for them to stand there exchanging 
the merest commonplaces, when there was so much hanging 
on the issues of that hour! Ida stood without speaking, her 
white dress fluttered idly by the night wind, and her rings 
glittering in the starlight. Evidently she did not choose to 
sustain the burden of any further conversation. 

Presently Dorrillon spoke again: 

I was hoping for an opportunity of speaking to you this 
evening, Mrs. Delamere, but the servants told me that you 
had reared. 

I did go u}) to my own room, but Angie coaxed me out 
again for a walk among the roses. 

Still she did not ask him why he had wished to see her. 

I understand that Mr. Fairfax leaves us to-morrow morn- 
ing,'’'^ he said, quietly. 

‘‘ Yes.’^ 

You will miss him?"^ 

‘‘Yes.^^ 

“You have been friends for some time, 1 am told?^^ 

“ Yes, for several years. 

“ It strikes me,^^ said Dorrillon, slowly, “ that he did a 
very foolish thing in risking, for the mere possibility of a 
nearer relation, the surety of friendship such as yours has 
been. Men are foolish at times — it seems to be a part of 
their nature. 

Ida looked up quickly. 

“ Mr. Dorrillon!’^ 

“You are surprised at my intimate knowledge of your pri- 
vate affairs. Yes, Mrs. Delamere, I happen to know that 
Mr. Fairfax has proposed to you, and been refused. But you 
need not look so startled — the secret is safe with me.^^ 

Ida drew herself haughtily up. 

“ I am not startled, Mr. Dorrillon — it matters little to me 
whether the secret, as you call it, is safe or not!’^ 

“ Have I offended you?’^ 

His voice had changed from an almost defiant accent to one 
of pleading earnestness. Ida^s, too, softened as she replied : 

“ I^^o! I had no reason for being offended. 

“ Are you going in?^^ for she had turned away from the 
fountain. 


260 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Yes; it is late/^ 

‘‘ Stay yet a moment longer. I have not said to you that 
which it is in my mind to speak. 

What is it, Mr. Dorrillon?’^ 

Ida/^ he said, in a low, strangely thrilling voice, ‘‘I, 
too, would risk all that Ferdinand Fairfax has risked and lost. 
I, too, am rash enough to hazard the certainty of friendship 
for the mere chance of something else. 1 love you, Ida, 1 
would fain call you — my wife. 

The last words were spoken almost underneath his breath. 
Ida listened in silence, and for an instant or two the low, 
monotonous drip of waters was all the sound that was audible 
between them. 

“ I love you, Ida,^^ he repeated, slowly and earnestly. 
“ There was a time when I thought I would go away and leave 
these words unspoken, for Fairfax seemed to have usurped the 
nearest place to your heart. To-night a new courage and re- 
solve came to me — have I been too rash?^^ 

No,^^ she said, softly. A man has the right and privi- 
lege of speaking — a woman can only stand still and wait.'’^ 

“ And decide the hat of destiny with one word. Ida, 1 am 
waiting for that word. 1 am a patient man — you, perhaps, 
have no idea how patient, but this suspense tries even my 
trained equanimity. Why do you not answer me?^^ 

“Mr. Dorrillon,^^ she cried, almost passionately, “what 
shall I say?^^ 

“ Say what your heart dictates 

He stood with folded arms looking down upon her, resisting 
the strong impulse to take her to his breast — to tell her she 
must love him, if only for all those years of self-repression and 
endurance through which he had passed. No, he would not 
bias by word or glance the final decision which was to seal his 
fate; he would drink the cup in silence, whatever it might be. 

“ But I can not abide by the dictation of my heart, she 
said. 

She came a step or two nearer him as she spoke, and then 
paused abruptly. 

“ Do you love me, Ida?^^ he asked, still standing with fold- 
ed arms. 

“ I must not love any one. 

“ That is hardly an answer 

“ Mr. Dorrillon, 1 might love you, if — She stopped here, 
her voice seemed to fail her. 

“ You might love me, Ida?^^ ^ 

If it were free for me to love anv one.”^^ ^ ' 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


261 


I do not under stand you, Ida; your words are an enigma. 

‘‘ And I can not make them plainer/^ she wailed. 

“ Your husband, perhaps — your dead husband — expressed 
a wish adverse to your forming a second alliance!’-^ said Dor- 
rillon, with a scarcely perceptible accent of bitterness in his 
tone. 

“ No — no, it is not that! Oh, if I dared tell you all!^^ 

“ Ida, you love me, then?’^ 

For there had been something in the thrilling tremulousness 
of her voice that brought a sadden rapture into his heart. He 
advanced toward her, but she shrunk away from him. 

‘‘ Mr. Dor rillon, I must not listen to such words as these. 
I am shut out from love and happiness such as are reserved 
for others more fortunate. I live a life of my own, apart and 
self-contained. In the name of all that is generous and chiv- 
alrous, leave me to my solitude 

“You have not answered me yet, Ida.^^ 

“Is it manly to demand an answer after what I have told 
you, Mr. Dorrillon?^^ 

“ Is it womanly to refuse it? Oh, Ida, my hearths queen! 
the idol of my soul! I have surely a right to know my fate!^^ 
“ You know it already, Mr. Dorrillon.^^ 

“ Then I am to understand,^^ he said, slowly and haughtily, 
“ that you do not love me?^^ 

“ I have not said so, Mr. Dorrillon. Oh, why will you press 
me so?^^ 

“ Well, what is it that you have said? I am waiting pa- 
tiently. 

“ I have said, Mr. Dorrillon, that there is a reason why 1 
can not marry. 

“ And that reason is — 

“I can not tell you: it is a secret which I must never 
divulge — no, never !^^ 

She leaned against the rim of the fountain, and Mr. Dor^ 
rillon could hear the quick, panting breath she drew. How 
she longed to fold her to his heart — to shelter her within the 
depths of his love — to comfort her as a husband should com- 
fort his wife! 

“ Ida, can I not guess at this secret?’^ 

“ No,'^ she said, sadly, “ you could never guess at it.^^ 

“ Is it an actual barrier between two hearts?^^ 

“Yes, a barrier which can never be surmounted — a dark, 
wicked thing, whose shadow has darkened my life for years — 
which shuts out all possibility of the happiness which comes to 
other women. 


262 


IDA CHALOKEK S HEART. 


IdaP^ 

‘‘ Do not look at me so, Mr. Dorrillon. Do not speak to 
me in that tender voice; I can not bear it — no, I can not 
bear it!’^ 

Ida, you are weeping. "'’ 

If I could weep tears of blood they would hardly express 
the anguish, the despair, of my heart, she uttered, passion- 
ately. ‘‘ Let me go in, Mr. DorrilJon; I have stood here Jong 
enough. 

Am I then answered, Ida?^^ 

“ Yes.^^ 

But I do not choose to consider this an answer. You must 
tell me still more. 

“Not to-night, Mr. Dorrillon.'’^ 

“ Not to-night, if you choose that it should be so. But, to- 
morrow, Ida, you will let me come to you in the library, at 
ten o^clock ! It is an hour at which the room is quire unoc- 
cupied. I have much to tell you, and I think you will perhaps 
take courage to impart to me this mystery at which you hint. 
Grant me this one favor, Ida, and I will ask no more of you 
— for the present, at least. You will receive me?^'’ 

“Yes, I will. 

For, even while she felt within herself the utter uselessness 
of thus postponing the evil days of final separation, Ida Dela- 
mere could not find it in her heart to put away this one last 
glimpse of happiness! 

“1 will see him once more, she thought, “and then 1 
will tell him that we must part forever!’" 

He led her silently to the door, and then turned back. 

“You are not coming in, Mr. Dorrillon?” 

“ No, I shall keep vigil with the stars awhile longer. Good- 
night, Ida.” 

“ Good-night.” 

His heart stirred joyously at the soft, trembling manner in 
which she spoke the two words. 

“ She loves me,” he thought, “ she loves me, or she never 
could have spoken thus. Oh, merciful Heaven! can it be 
possible that this great gift of happiness is coming to me at 
last? I am like Jacob, in Holy Writ: 1 have served seven 
years for this blessed reward, and now 1 see it, dimly, yet not 
unattainable!” 

And he turned away, alone with his dream of blessedness, a 
vision as bright as it was destined to be illusive. 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


263 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 

CALLED AWAY. 

Pale and trembling, yet conscious through it all of a bliss- 
fulness that pervaded her whole being with strange, electric 
buoyancy, Ida Delamere sunk down into the low easy-chair in 
her own room and buried her face in her hands. 

Mathilde came softly in from the other room. 

“ Will madame please to undress?^^ 

Not yet, Mathilde; I am not ready.” 

Mathilde yawned behind her hand. The evening had not 
seemed long to her; in truth, and in fact, Mathilde was carry- 
ing on a very brisk little affaire de cmir with Mr. Perkins, 
the coachman, who had taken a fancy to her pretty Gascon 
face, and the musical tone in which she maiiaged to mispro- 
nounce most of the words in the English dictionary. But Per- 
kins, devoted swain as he was, could not sit up all night mak- 
ing love to Mathilde, and she had been alone in madame^s 
room since ten o’clock. 

‘‘It is after midnight,” she hazarded, “ and madame has 
had, to be sure, a very fatiguing day — ” 

“ You need not sit up for me, Mathilde; I can do my hair 
for myself.” 

Mathilde retired, after a faint protestation or two that she 
would wait herself and brush out madame’s hair, and Ida was 
alone. 

Alone, and yet she could not fix her mind upoji the grave 
subjects that should have occupied it. He loved her; his 
heart was all her own; the full joy of this consciousness was 
sufficient in itself. For a brief while she might revel in this, 
even though the shadows of destiny closed in upon the future 
that was so near at hand. Once in her life she had tasted the 
cup, whose draught was like the elixir of immortality, even 
should it be dashed from her lips the next moment. He loved 
her, and that was enough. She let her thoughts wander back 
upon the hour which had just passed; she conjured up, by aid 
of the enchanter’s wand of love and memory, the starlight, 
and the drip of the fountain, and his voice sounding in her ear 
as human tones had never before sounded. All the sweet 
words were spoken over again, the tender accents dwelt once 
more upon her ears, her heart answering back to each one of 
them. 


264 IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 

He loved her! Ought that not to be happiness enough for 
once? 

But it was not. The heart, exacting and limitless in its re- 
quirements, stiJl keeps demanding more; and even in the first 
flush of her happiness Ida asked herself what she should tell 
him on the morrow. Had she been wise to grant this last in- 
terview? Had it not been better that they should have part- 
ed forever, in the starlight, by the fountain? Ida rose up, 
passionately throwing back the hair from her throbbing 
temples with both hands, and walked up and down the room 
with hurrying footsteps, and cheeks dyed burning red. 

Oh, what have I done,^^ she wailed, in low, broken ac- 
cents, ‘‘ that the lot of other women should be denied me? 
What have I done to be shut out from love and sympathy and 
human gladness? There is neither right nor justice in it — 
only fate! Why should the crime of another, in which I had 
neither hand nor participation, follow me like a Nemesis? 
Why should I not cast it ofl:?'^ 

And then, with a remembrance of all the consequences, 
possible and probable, which this would entail, she threw her- 
self on the sofa, her face pressed close to its cushions. 

‘‘ Oh, no, no! I must not dream of such a thing! I could 
not go to him with the shadow of such an awful crime for a 
marriage dowry. It has made my married life wretched once; 
it shall never overcloud my future again! Better to live on 
alone than to see any face that is dear to me turned away with 
the horror and loathing which a knowledge of the truth must 
surely bring. It has seemed very bright, this possibility; but 
I must put it away from me now and forever. Let it be 
enough that he, my king and prince among men, has loved 
me!^^ 

And in the few moments of silence that succeeded — mo- 
ments in which she neither stirred nor moved, but lay there 
like a dead person — she dug the grave of this new-born hope 
and sepulchered it with an anguish that seemed worse than 
death. 

But what should she! tell him? Ida tried to form some 
definite plan, but in vain. She could not tell him the truth — 
she would not. Let him think what he chose about her, he 
could form no conjecture that would be equal to the truth. 
He knew already that she loved him, as well as if her lips had 
spoken the words-— he should know no more. 

As her overwearied brain puzzled itself with ever-recurring 
possibilities and fancies, a faint tap sounded at the door. 

‘‘Who is it?^^ 


IDA CHALONEE'S heart. 


265 


Ida sprung to her feet, and went to answer the summons. 
It was Mrs. Hyde, the housekeeper, with a shawl thrown on 
to hide the lacking elements of her very insufficient toilet. 

“ What is it, Mrs. Hyde? Is any one ill?^^ 

‘'No, ma’am; it’s a telegram just come, by special mes- 
senger, from New York. It’s a lucky thing you’re up, 
ma’am. I hated to disturb you, but I thought you ought to 
have it to-night.” 

“ Yes, certainly, Mrs. Hyde. Sit down a minute.” 

Going toward the light Ida broke the seal of the yellow en- 
velope, and read these words: 

“ I am dying— at least, so they tell me, and I must see you 
while I have yet strength to speak. I have that to tell you 
which will be worth your while to hear. I do not say come at 
once, but I say that if you do not come you will repent it to 
your life’s end. 

“ Giuseppe Antonardi.” 

Brief, brusque, almost threatening, Ida read the telegram 
twice or thrice over before she could assure herself that she 
fully comprehended its import. Then, pressing her hand to 
her forehead she tried to think what it was best to do. Of 
course she must go; there might be tidings of her miserable 
mother which it was essential she should hear. 

Involved as she was in the net- work of this man’s plots and 
intrigues, she could never escape from them; no, not even 
after death had removed one witness of her reflected disgrace. 
Let him die; it would be, at least, one leaf torn out of the 
book of her trials and persecutions. But at all events she 
must go to him, and at once. Death was a relentless creditor 
whose claims could never be postponed. Yes, she would go 
to him. 

“ Is it of importance, ma’am?” asked Mrs. Hyde, who had 
watched her young mistress’s face with some apprehension. 

“ Yes — of the greatest. Is the messenger waiting?” 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am, to be sure! I told him to wait on 
horseback, for there might be an answer.” 

“You were very thoughtful. There is an answer. I will 
write it directly. ” 

She took a sheet of paper from her writing-desk and hur- 
riedly wrote on it the words: 

“ I wiU come at once. 

“ Ida Delamere.” 


266 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


Directing it, she inclosed the envelope in another super- 
scribed to the telegraph company, and gave it to Mrs. Hyde. 

Come back to me, please, Mrs. Hyde, after you have given 
the letter to the man.^^ 

When Mrs. Hyde returned, her mistress was sitting in the 
same position in which she had left her. 8he did not seem to 
notice the housekeeper’s entrance. 

‘‘ You wished to speak to me*, ma’am?” said Mrs. Hyde, 
after she had coughed gently once or twice behind her hand, 
without succeeding in attracting Mrs. Delamere’s attention. 
Ida looked up. 

‘‘Yes, I wanted to know at what time the first express train 
to New York leaves New Haven.” 

“ There is one at midnight, ma’am.” 

“ It is past midnight now.” 

“ And another at seven, ma’am.” 

“ That is the one I must take.” 

Mrs. Hyde looked astonished. 

“Are you going away, ma’am? No bad news, I hope?” 

“ No— yes; I suppose it would be (tailed bad news. I wish 
to go as quietly and with as little comment as possible.” 

“ Shall you be gone long, ma’am?” 

“Not more than a day or so, probably. If you are asked 
anything about the cause of my absence, you may say it was 
sudden business.” 

“But you are not going alone, ma’am?” 

“Yes. Why not?” 

“You are so young, ma’am, and so inexperienced — if it 
ain’t a liberty, my saying so,” apologized the housekeeper. 

“ I am young, Mrs. Hyde, but I am not inexperienced,” 
said Ida, with a quiet dignity which repressed the good 
woman’s objections at once. “ W^hat time is it now? — a 
quarter to one. Tell Perkins to have the close carriage at the 
eastern door at four o’clock precisely to drive me over to New 
Haven.” 

“ And your breakfast, ma’am?” 

“ You can get me a cup of coftee 5 ^ourself. I don’t want 
to set the servants gossiping any more than is absol utely neces- 
sary, and I shall want nothing else.” 

“Yes, ma’am. Can I help you in packing?” 

“ I shall have nothing to pack, and Mathilde will be here.” 

“ Then there is nothing mox'e I can do for you, ma’am, at 
present?” 

“Nothing.” 


IDA CHALONER^’S HEART. 267 

Mrs. Hyde withdrew, and Ida, left to herself, sat down and 
wrote a hurried note to Mr. Dorrillon. 

“ 1 am called unexpectedly away from Beech cliff for a day 
or two. Will you allow me to postpone our interview until 
my return? I do not know that 1 am wise in granting it at 
all, but as 1 have promised I will not depart from my word. 

“‘L B,’’ 

That will do,^’ she thought; it is cold and brusque, and 
I feel myself how awkwardly the words were selected, but I 
have neither time nor inclination now to study the graces of 
rhetoric. If he does not like it — but then, in the midst of 
her perplexity and annoyance a soft, shy smile hovered around 
her lips. She knew too well to confess it, even to herself, 
that the brief phrases she had written would be liked whatever 
might be their import. 

For he loved her — that was the sweet refrain of all her 
thoughts — he loved her. 

She had swallowed the cup of fragrant and steaming coffee 
which Mrs. Hyde brought to her room, and the carriage was 
waiting at the eastern door to convey her to her destination 
before she went into Mathiide’s room. 

The French girl was in a sound sleep, her pretty cheek 
flushed by some pleasant dream as her mistress laid her hand 
lightly on her arm. 

Mathilde, Mathilde, wake up!’" 

Mathilde raised herself on one elbow and stared around her 
as people do when roused suddenly from a deep slumber. 

‘ ‘ What is it? Who called me? Madame is dressed — ma- 
dame is going away. Oh, what has happened?^^ 

“ Nothing has happened, Mathilde. I am going on a short 
journey, that is all.^^ 

And madame has not called me?^^ 

‘‘ Because it was not necessary. I do not require your at- 
tendance. All I want of you is secrecy and — She hesitat- 
ed a second or two. 

‘‘ Madame may depend on me,^^ promptly interposed Ma- 
thilde. 

‘‘ And,^^ went on Ida, speaking rapidly and in a low voice, 

1 want you to give this note, with your own hands, to Mr. 
Dorrillon as soon after breakfast to-morrow as you can, with- 
out incurring observation. You understand me, Mathilde?^^ 
Yes, madame.^’ All that was French in Mathilde^s nat- 
ure came out at the meirtion of notes which were to be deliv- 
ered secretly. “ Where is the billet doux r’ 


268 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Ida^s dark eyebrows contracted. 

‘‘ It is no billet doux, Mathilde — only a necessary communi- 
cation/’ she said, sternly. 

“ I quite understand, madame;” and Mathilde placed it 
tenderly beneath her pillow. Madame’s wishes shall be fol- 
lowed strictly. ” 

She drew forth the letter again to look at its superscription 
as her mistress left the room, and murmured sleeply to her- 
self: 

And Monsieur Fairfax — there is no note of farewell to 
him. But that’s the way of the world, up and down, here 
and there, one wins and another loses, while I — Grand del! 
but how sleepy I am!” She closed her eyes and lapsed into a 
dreamy half somnolence. “ I will raise myself up presently 
and put the little note so precious under my pillow,” she 
thought. “ It will be safer there.” 

And so thinking. Mile. Mathilde fell fast asleep again. 

It was broad daylight when she at length awoke, the sun- 
shine flooding her room with early brightness, and the little 
'pendule clock in the room adjoining striking seven. 

The first thought was that it was time to rise and prepare 
her mistress’s shower-bath; the second; a remembrance that 
Mrs. Delarnere had visited her room in the gray dawn, shawled 
and veiled and dressed as if for a journey; the third, a con- 
sciousness of some charge impressed upon her mind — the let- 
ter for Mr. Dorrilliou. 

She felt under her pillow. It was not there. 

How clumsy of me!” thought Mathilde. I have dropped 
it among the bedclothes — but I certainly remember putting it 
under the pillow.’^ 

She sprung out of bed and shook out the clothing — there 
was no note there. A candle stood on the table, burning down 
into its socket— the candle Ida had left there the night before. 
Mathilde looked into the silver rim with eyes of terror, to see 
if perhaps there might be flakes of ashes there. 

“ And I,” she mused, in apprehension, I am such a log 
when I sleep — I may have dropped it directly into the candle, 
but praise be to the saints, there are no ashes and no smell of 
burned paper. Prenez bon courage — it had no legs and could 
not run away — it must be here somewhere!’^ 

But, notwithstanding Mathilde’s self-consolation, the note 
appeared to have vanished as effectually as if it were gifted 
with what Mathilde was sure it had not — legs. She searched 
her room, her own night garments, the bed-clothes, in vain. 

^^Mon Dieuy^’ thought the French girl, “ what shall I do.^ 


iDA CHA loner’s HEARTi 


269 


Madame will never forgive me — as for monsieur, he would tear 
me into pieces if he did but know. It is but to put a brave 
face upon it — all will be right. Ten to one madame will never 
discover that the note was not delivered, and if she does, why,’’ 
with an inimitable shrug of the shoulders, ‘‘ to have forgotten 
is not a capital crime!” 

It was fortunate that Mile. Mathilde had an elastic con- 
science. 


CHAPTER XL. 

DISAPPOINTED. 

Frederic Dorrillon slept very little that August night, 
but his thoughts and aspirations were sweeter and more re- 
freshing to him than any slumbers could have been. Even in 
the brief interval of unconsciousness that descended upon his 
eyelids, after he had turned and tossed long upon his pillow, 
the enigmatical words that Ida had spoken haunted his broken 
and disconnected dreams, and the fountain and the starlight, 
and the song of summer insects mingled fantastically with 
grave, deeper thoughts! 

It was a little more than sunrise when he rose, cooling his 
heated brow with iced water, and trying to quiet his reflections 
by looking out upon the fresh morning landscape, where the 
short grass of the lawn was sparkling with dew-drops, and the 
crescent-shaped heads of dazzling petunias, verbenas, and scar- 
let geraniums were glowing like rainbows penciled on the 
earth. 

How shall I pass the time away until ten o’clock?” was 
his first thought; and he added, half smiling at himself: ‘‘I 
am getting as impatient as a school-boy.” 

Yet there were the four or five long hours still to be existed 
through. That was a fact as undeniable as it was disagree- 
able. 

I can not meet all those chattering magpies down-stairs, 
and discuss the weather, the chances for a shower, and the 
latest item of news in the morning papers, as if my destiny 
were not hanging on the thread of the coming hours,” he 
said, impatiently, to himself. “ I will go for a walk in the 
woods; there is nothing like bodily exercise for restraining a 
mind that is preternaturally active.” 

Mrs. Hyde was in the breakfast-room as he passed its open 
door. 

“You are going for a walk, sir?” 


270 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


“ Yes; the morning is so fine that I can not remain in- 
doors/^ was the good-humored response. 

‘‘ You had better have a cup of coffee before you go, Mr. 
Dorrillon/^ said the prudent-minded housekeeper. “ I have 
it here in the urn, if you^ll just let me pour it out. It^s never 
healthy, sir, taking them long walks on an empty stomach. 
You young folks never think of dyspepsia until it^s fairly got 
hold of you. 

“ If you really think there is any danger of such an awful 
fate as that, said Dorrillon, gravely, “1^11 come and take 
your prescription.^^ 

He gratified Mrs. Hyde by drinking a full cup of the bev- 
erage for whose manufacture she was justly renowned, and 
breaking off half a crispy French roll, before he went on his 
way. 

“ A very nice gentleman that, if he is half Scotch,^" thought 
Mrs. Hyde. “ There ainT many like him. Fve thought once 
or twice lately that my young lady fancied him a bit. I^m 
sure she should have my blessing, if that was all that was 
wanted. 

Meanwhile, Frederic Dorrillon, quite unconscious of the 
favorable sentiments conceived toward him by Mrs. Hyde, was 
plunging into the depths of the woods toward the river shore. 

“ 1 need not return now, until time to see he thought. 
“ 1 had rather be alone with these old forest trees, and the 
rush of the river, and my own thoughts, than to answer 
questions in which 1 am not interested, and listen to remarks 
that I canT take the trouble to comprehend at the Beechcliff 
breakfast - table. She will know how to interpret my ab- 
sence. 

He kept his resolve, and it was a quarter of ten when he 
ascended the broad stairway to his own room at Beechcliff. 
There was no one in the hall but Mr. Carisforde, the Bridge- 
port banker, who lay lazily outstretched on a bamboo settee 
fancying that he was reading. 

“Halloo, Dorrillon!’^ he called out in an injured tone of 
voice. “ You\e been fishing again. Why didiiT you tell 
,me? You knew 1 wanted to go!^^ 

“ I have not been fishing,^ ^returned Mr. Dorrillon, “ in the 
first place; and, in the second, I wanted no companionship. 
DonT look so aggrieved, Carisforde. Are there never any 
times when you prefer the society of yourself alone 

Mr. Carisforde shook his head; there was no preponderance 
of the ideal in his nature, and he could not comprehend what 
he called “ freaks in others. 


IDA CHALOKEE’s HEAET. 


271 


Ten minutes afterward Dorrillon descended the stairs and 
took his way toward the library. 

‘‘ Don^t you want to see the morning papers?^^ called Caris- 
forde after him. ‘‘ There^s a capital summary of the debates 
in the House of Parliament, and red-hot editorial about in- 
ternational responsibility.'’^ 

Thanks — nob just at present.'’^ 

Mr. Carisforde lifted up his head with some idea of follow- 
ing his friend into the library, but it required too much resolu- 
tion to leave his easy, reclining posture, with the sofa pillow 
under his shoulders, and a view, through the wide-open doors, 
of the green shrubberies without, so Mr. Dorrillon escaped for 
the nonce. 

He’s an unsociable kind of fellow, too,” thought Caris- 
forde; one never knows how to take him. I’m well oS here, 
and here I’ll stay till some one comes along to talk over the 
money article with me. I wonder how the thermometer is? 
I’ve an idea this is the hottest day of the season.” 

The library was cool and quiet, with closed Venetian slats, 
and the vases newly filled with flowers, while the whole room 
was redolent with that pleasant, indescribable odor of books 
which so often pervades the room where they are kept. Dor- 
rillon threw himself into the leathern-covered easy-chair, then 
rose up again impatiently. It was quite impossible to sit still 
and listen to the ticking of the tall, black marble clock, and 
the distant sound of the drawing-room piano, where Angie 
Gresham was singing simple little ballads to Mr. Waverley 
Cleve, in whose ears they were doubtless preferable to the 
sweetest Italian bravura ever warbled by Parepa. Quite im- 
possible — and Mr. Dorrillon began to walk slowly up and down 
the room, ever and anon comparing his watch with the clock, 
and wondering if ever the moments lagged so slowly before. 

Ten o’clock — and no light footstep at the door; Ida was 
rather punctual in her habits, but women, as a rule, were sel- 
dom very methodical, and he would allow her at least fifteen 
minutes’ grace. 

Hush! there was an elastic footfall, but it went by the 
door — it was only Mrs. Henley Forsyth going to get some white 
moss roses for her hair — and then he recognized Mrs. Hyde’s 
elephantine tread, and that of James the footman, carrying a 
basket of fruit from the grapery to the dining-room. Would 
she never come? 

Ten minutes after ten — Mr. Dorrillon was growing impa- 
tient now, despite his resolution about the fifteen minutes’ 
grace. 


272 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


Perhaps, however, she was detained by some prosy female 
edition of Mr. Carisforde. 

He only wished he had the woman by the throat, whoever 
she was — and another fevered spasm of striding up and down 
the room followed. 

Fifteen minutes past — and no Ida still. Dorrillon sat down 
and resolutely took up a book; but if it had been written in 
the Chaldee language it would have been equally profitable to 
him. His eyes skimmed along the sentences, telegraphing no 
report whatever to his brain, and presently he laid it aside, 
impatiently. 

Half past ten — the clock struck the half hour with a shrill 
sound, as if some tiny elf hidden within the black marble case 
were laughing at his discomfiture. He rang the bell; in a 
minute or two James came into the room. 

Where is Mrs. Delamere? — in the gardens or in her own 
room?’^ 

“ She ain^t anywhere, sir,^^ said James, somewhat taken by 
surprise, for he forgot that Mr. Dorrillon had not been one 
of the guests who, at the breakfast-table, had marveled over 
Mrs. Delamere^s unusual absence. ‘‘Leastways, sir, she 
ain^t at Beechclifi.^^ 

“ Not at Beechclifi?^^ 

“ No, sir; she went away early this morning. 

“ Went where?^^ 

“ I don’t know, sir.” 

“ And when is she to return?” 

“I can’t say.” 

“ WJio does know anything about it?” 

“ I don’t know, sir,” returned James, sorely perplexed by 
this cannonade of questions. “ Mrs. Hyde, she don’t know 
more’n 1 know — may be,” he added, unconsciously heaping 
Ossa upon Pelion of his tautology, “Miss Matildy, as is ma- 
dame’s own maid, knows.” 

“ Send her to me at once.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

James went whistling up the stairs. Mathilde was no favor- 
ite of his, partly because she preferred Perkins’s attentions to 
his, and partly because she laughed at him and called him 
“ clumsy,” and he did not specially relish an errand to her. 

The French girl was sitting in her mistress’s anteroom, 
fluting laces, with the door half-way open, singing some little 
sentimental ballad to herself. 

“ Matildy,” called James, without taking the trouble to do 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 373 

more than peer through the balusters, ‘^you^re wanted in the 
library. 

Who wants me?^^ 

A young gentleman — so there 

“ I will not believe you/^ said Mathilde, composedly pulling 
out a piece of lace. 

‘‘ It^s so/^ pleaded James. ‘‘ I ain^t a-chaffin^ of you this 
time, honor b right 

“ Ah!’^ said Mathilde; “ 1 comprehend you, James. You 
have deceived me the times without end. I shall not myself 
disturb. 

^Tain^t Perkins, said James, with a grin; “ he’s out at 
the stables, smokin’ his pipe, and watching the stable-boys do 
nothin’ at all.” 

‘‘It is no person,” said Mathilde, “ My fluting scissors, 
they are too hot!” and she twirled her little finger piteously. 

“ Come — ain’t you a-goin’?” 

“ No — to be sure, no!” 

“Very well,” said James, turning away, “ I’ll tell Mr. 
Dorrillon so. ” 

“Mr. Dorrillon!” Mathilde jumped to her feet at once. 
“ AVhy did you not say at once that it was Mr. Dorrillon? 
What wants he?” 

“ You, I s’pose. He asked for madame’s maid!” 

“ Oh, mercy!” ejaculated Mathilde, scattering her laces 
recklessly around her. “ Tell him I will be with him this in- 
stant.” 

' “ You needn’t be in such a hurry,” said James, malicious- 
ly. “ He ain’t going to make love to you.” 

“You think one is only conscious of love-making, you 
Americans!” said Mathilde, contemptuously. “ Go and talk 
nonsense to Maria: I have not the wish to listen to it!” 

“ Not a bad piece of advice, if a fellow had the time to listen 
to it,” said James, as he took himself ofl. “ She’ll be down 
directly, sir!” he said to Mr. Dorrillon, and then vanished. 

Presently Mathilde entered, in a blue muslin dress, a great 
deal more fanciful and expressive than any that poor Angie 
Gresham wore, and a jaunty white apron, trimmed all around 
with delicate ruffles. 

“ Did monsieur wish to speak to me?” she questioned, de- 
murely, looking, as James might have said, “as if butter 
wouldn’t melt in her mouth.” 

“ Where is Mrs. Delamere?” inquired Dorrillon, abruptly. 

“ Gone, monsieur.” 

“ Whither?” 


274 IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 

Mathilde shook her head — she did not know. Madame had 
not told her. 

Do jou know when she will return?^^ 

‘‘No, monsieur. 

“ This is very strange, enunciated Dorrillon, biting his lip. 

“ Yes, monsieur,^'’ Mathilde answered, with downcast eye- 
lids, “ it ts strange.’^ 

“ Did she — did she leave no note or message for me?^^ 

“ Did monsieur expect one?^^ 

Mathilde’s look of innocent surprise was sufficient of an an- 
swer; he turned away, annoyed that he had exposed himself to 
the comment arid wonder of" servants. 

“ That will do, Mathilde,^’ he said, coldly, and the French 
maid withdrew, internally congratulating herself that she had 
passed through the dreaded interview without being compelled 
actually to tell a falsehood. 

“ A little bit of equivocation is no harm,^^ thought Ma- 
thilde, “ the priest himself couldnT object to that, when one 
is really driven to itl^^ 

Meanwhile, Dorrillon stood in the library, his arms folded 
tightly across his heaving chest, his eyes full of a stern, dan- 
gerous light. 

“ So,^^ he muttered to himself, “she has chosen to avoid 
this interview by something not very different , from flight. 
Was she so much afraid of me? or was it that she was unwill- 
ing to stay and abide the consequences of her own coquetry? 
She did not love me — she has never loved me — and I have 
been deceiving myself a second time. Well, I shall learn ex- 
perience after awhile, and wisdom. Oh, my God! that Thou 
shouldst allow one human being to be so cruelly at the mercy 
of another. Thy waves and billows have gone over me, and I 
am weary of striving against destiny 

All the morning he remained in the library. Carisforde, 
lounging in the hall, wondered what on earth Dorrillon could 
And to busy himself about among those books — people came 
up and down, their blithe voices floating on the summer air, 
like echoes from another world from that which surrounded 
the lonely, heart-broken solitaire — and the sunshine ebbed 
like a sea of gold along the grass on the Beechclifi; lawn. 
When at length he came out, it was with a face as haggard as 
if he had passed through weeks of illness. 

“ Halloo, Dorrillon, said Carisforde, as he passed; “ I 
didnT know you were having a fit in there, or making your 
will, or something else equally disagreeable. You Ye done up 
with the hot weather, arenY you? I knew that long walk 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


275 


wasnH the thing, with the thermometer up in the clouds. 
Try a little iced claret — it^s the most cooling thing a man can 
take this weather. 

Dorrillon muttered some unintelligible reply, and when 
Mathilde met him on the stairs, on her way down to the upper- 
servants^ lunch, in the housekeeper's room, she started, so 
pale and worn did he look. 

‘‘ Monsieur is not well?^^ she asked, timidly. 

Monsieur is perfectly well. Mathilde, can I depend on 
you?^’ 

‘‘ Perfectly, monsieur. 

I am leaving Beechcliff. Will you give this note to your 
mistress as soon as she returns?^^ 

‘‘ Notes again thought Mathilde, as she received the little 
sealed and folded billet with a generous douceur in the shape 
of a rustling new bank-bill. “ Monsieur is too kind — yes, 
surely, madame will have the note. We shall all be sorry to 
lose monsieur from Beechcliff. 

Speak for yourself alone, Mathilde, said Dorrillon, almost 
savagely, as he turned away. Mathilde watched him enter his 
room with wondering eyes; then she scrutinized the note he 
had given her carefully before she slipped it into her bosom. 

“ There shall be no mistake about this,^^ thought Mathilde, 
“ at all events. All the same, 1 should like much to know 
what is in it. 1 hope there is nothing about the other one 
which he didnT get! On the whole, it is just as well that he 
is leaving Beechcliff before madame returns. It saves explana- 
tions, which might be awkward for a poor girl like me, who 
meant no harm.'’^ 

So Mathilde went down-stairs to lunch, with an excellent 
appetite, and thought no more about the mischief she had un- 
wittingly done. 

And, when the nightfall, with its purple and its dew, gath- 
ered once ’more over the lovely shrubberies at Beechcliff, 
Frederic Dorrillon was miles and miles away on the journey he 
had commenced. Whither he went, he cared not — it \vas 
enough that he was leaving behind him the ashes of a dead 
hope. 


CHAPTEE XLI. 

GIUSEPPE^S STORY. 

The August heats were pouring down in the narrow, reek- 
ing streets of the vicinity commonly called the Five Points, in 
New York, like an Arab sun reflected from the fierce sands of 


276 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


the desert, and the big bell of the City Hall clock had just 
proclaimed the hour of one in the afternoon, when a dark, vil- 
lainous-looking man, clad in a suit of rusty velveteen which 
seemed to set the weather entirely at defiance, came down the 
shaking stairway of a two-story wooden house and took his 
stand in the door, both hands in his pockets, and a black, 
stumpy pipe between his yellow teeth. 

It was, as we have said, a small house, warped and crooked so 
that it seemed to stand with one shoulder higher than the other, 
and tumble-down dormer-windows in the roof. A pawnbroker's 
shop, surmounted by three balls which had been gilded and 
glittering once, but were now tarnished and unattractive, oc- 
cupied the lower story, and a red-eyed old woman, apparently 
on the qiii vive for chance custom, was knitting industriously 
away on the doorstep, with a cat almost as large as herself 
crouched directly beside her, its sleepy green eyes dilating and; 
expanding by turns. Opposite and all around were groceries,, 
liquor stores, junk shops, markets, all surmounted with the: 
inevitable human hives called tenement houses. Some of the: 
windows held wooden boxes containing miserable stunted plants;; 
some bird-cages and white mice; some, tangled heads thrust out„ 
as if the contemplation of the dirty streets was better than that 
of the squalor and wretchedness within. Venders of damaged 
fruit and wilted vegetables drove, bawling through the narrow 
thoroughfares; fishmen shrieked through tin horns, and dogs 
barked inefiectually at each new tide of sound, while from the 
gutters blear-eyed children start up as if they were a natural 
growth of the foulness and dirt engendered therein. 

How is he?^^ asked the pawnbroker’s grandmother, as she 
seamed her stocking and scratched her head with a disengaged 
knitting-needle. 

‘‘ He ain’t no better,” growled the man in the door- way. 
‘‘ Ain’t nothin’ ’ll suit him, but I must come down here and 
look out for somebody as ain’t cornin’, and won’t come. Blast 
it all!” he added, kicking viciously at a lean cur which ran 
past* with a bone in its mouth, “ I’m sick of this ’ere busi- 
ness!” 

‘‘I don’t wonder, said the old Jewess, sympathetically. . 
“ 1 s’pose he’s got money!” 

If he hadn’t he wouldn’t be here,” was the rejoinder. 
“ I’d kick him into the streets if he was my wife’s brother 
forty times over. A pretty brother — keepin’ away from us, as 
if we’d had the small-pox, as long as he didn’t want nothing 
of us — we might ha’ starved, the whole pack and boodle of us 
— for all him — and then cornin’ here to be nussed up the min- 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART, 


277 


ute he gets his head split iu a row down by the river-side. 
That^s iiateral affection, that is!^^ 

And the man uttered a contemptuous grunt, with such 
energy that the black pipe fell out of his mouth, and was with 
difficulty rescued from breakage. 

“ Some folks is that way,^^ said the woman, shrugging her 
shoulders. “ Your wife always had a soft heart. 

‘‘ She’d better keep her soft heart for me and the kids, 
then,” growled the man. 

Does the doctor say he’ll die?” asked the Jewess, looking 
up with a blink of curiosity in her red eyes. 

“ ’Tain’t none o’ your business, nor mine, neither, what the 
doctor says,” was the ungracious reply. All I know is, it’s 
three days since he came here, a-turnin’ the place topsy-turvy, 
with his hollerin’, and his groanin’, and his screechin’, and 
I’m pretty much sick of it.” 

“ 1 should think so,” said the woman. ‘‘ How did it hap- 
pen, now? Nina’s been so busy, I ain’t had a chance to ask 
her.” 

How does most things happen hereabouts? In a row — a 
gamblin’ row— down to one of them furrin’ sailor boardin’- 
houses by the water, to be sure. If they’d killed him, fair 
and square, I wouldn’t ha’ said a word; but to bring him here 
to keep us all in a stew three mortal days, it’s what I call 
mean!” 

“ So it is,” assented the Jewess, rising to go in, as a meager, 
half-grown boy advanced toward her sanctum with the end of 
a pair of tongs sticking out of a newspaper wrapping, a sure 
token of the distress or perverted appetites of his miserable 
home. 

“ Is it the tongs you’ve brought Barney, dear? Sure, they’ll 
make an elegant set, with the broken fender and Widow Sum- 
mers’s brass-topped poker!” 

At the same moment a woman’s footstep came down the 
stairs, and a worn, haggard face, framed in big bands of dead- 
black hair, looked over the shoulder of the man in the door- 
way. 

“ She ain’t cornin’ yet, is she, Chris?” 

She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, and pushed aside 
her hair with a weary motion. 

“ No— she ain’t!” 

Is it late, Chris?” 

Where’s your ears? ain’t the clock just struck one?” 

“ I’ve had other things to think of beside watching for the 
clock, Chris. He can’t last long. Poor Giuseppe!” 


278 IDA chalonek/s heaet. 

“ He^ll last long enough to wear us all out, you^ll find/’ 
snarled the man. 

‘‘ He^s the only relation I^e got in the world/^ pleaded 
his wife. 

‘‘ And a good thing it is; if you^d had many of the same 
sort, I’d emigrate to Australia — hanged if I wouldn’t!*’ 

“ He never has troubled us much,” said the wife, with a 
slightly resentful accent in her voice. 

“ No; ’cause he’s never wanted nothin’ of us. 1 don’t be- 
lieve in no relations — I don’t.” 

‘‘He’s my brother, all the same,” said Nina, “and I’ll 
take care of him, husband or no husband; so I tell you.” 

“Humph!” grunted the man. “O’ course you will — I 
never doubted that! Get back into the house with you, 
Nina!” 

“ But you’ll stay here and watch?” 

“ ’T won’t be for any love of him — that you may under- 
stand!” was the gruff answer. 

“For my sake, Chris!” she pleaded. 

“Go in with you, I say!” ejaculated the man, turning 
upon her with such a volley of imprecations that she stayed to 
hear no more. 

Dashing up. the creaking stairway, worn slanting by the 
tread of the footsteps of half a century, she opened the door 
and softly glided into the back room, used apparently for bed- 
room, kitchen, and dwelling-room for the whole family, and 
dirty and crowded to suffocation. Two grimy-faced, black- 
eyed children sat on the fioor, fighting over a broken piece of 
gayly colored crockery; a tall, bold-looking young woman sat 
at a rattling sewing - machine, stitching away at a pile of 
tailor’s shopwork which lay on the fioor beside her, and a boy 
was asleep in a rocking-chair, a worn newspaper in his hand, 
while on a bed in the further corner of the room, tossing to 
and fro and uttering now and then low, murmuring sounds 
which might have been words or might have been mere ejacu- 
lations of pain and uneasiness, lay Giuseppe Antonardi, wait- 
ing for the end of all things. 

He opened wide his half-closed eyes as the Italian-born 
woman entered. 

“ Has she come?” he asked, eagerly. 

“No,” was the answer, spoken in a soothing, regretful 
tone. 

“ Madre di Dio I and the time grows so short. Is it night 
yet?” 

“ No, Giuseppe, it has only just struck one.” 


IDA CHALONER’s heart. 


279 


The little bag of black velvet, is it safe where you put it 
under the pillow?^"' 

No one has touched it, Giuseppe. 

“ Let me see it,^^ he sharply demanded. 

Bending low the woman slipped her arms between the straw 
bed and the sacking and drew out a little bag of black velvet 
worked in tarnished gold thread. 

Here it is^ Giuseppe,’’ she said. 

Give it to me in my own hand,” he cried, breathlessly. 

Mind, Niiietfca, it is for her if she should come too late. 
For her, and tell her — but you can’t tell her! Nobody can 
tell her but me — and 1 am going!” 

“ Take another drink of this, Giuseppe,^’ said his sister, 
holding a battered tin cup to his lips. ‘‘ ctor said you 

wasn’t to tire yourself out.” 

‘‘He is right,” murmured Giuseppe, faintly. “I shall 
need all my strength when she comes!” 

“ She’ll be here pretty soon,” said Nina. “ Better try and 
sleep. ” 

“ I shall not sleep again until I sleep forever,” he answered, 
in a hollow tone, as if talking to himself. “ That noise — it 
troubles me — it is like water flowing, flowing away from me!” 

Nina made a gesture to the bold-eyed girl to stop her work. 

“ Take it down to Mary Egan’s room,” she whispered, 
“ and take the children with you, Elena. He can’t last long 
now — and it’s hard he shouldn’t die in peace.” 

^The girl silently obeyed, and tapping the sleeping boy on 
tbo shoulder beckoned to him to follow her, so that the room 
was left in silence, save for the occasional upward-borne echoes 
of the noisy world of the streets without. 

Giuseppe Antonardi lay staring at the ceiling with lips that 
worked ceaselessly and tremulous fingers clutching at the bed- 
clothes. 

“ To think that it should end thus!” he muttered once. 
“ I thought of everything, but I never thought of this! Well 
— a man can’t live forever!” and then his voice died away 
into silence. 

He lay apparently quite quiescent for some minutes, then 
raised himself on his elbows, staring wildly, around. 

“ She is coming! I hear her! She is coming!” he ex- 
claimed. 

“Lie down, Giuseppe,’^ soothed his sister; “it’s only the 
children on the stairs.” 

But the next moment the door of the miserable apartment 
opened, and Ida Delamere stood on the threshold, pale and 


280 


IDA CHA loner’s HEART. 


travel-worn, a dark shawl wrapped round her slender form, 
and a heavy veil thrown back from her face. 

“ Signora Ida!” he faltered, with a gesture, as if he would 
have shrunk out cf her sight. 

‘‘ I have come, Giuseppe,” she answered, advancing slowly 
to his bedside, and seating herself in the chair that the Italian 
woman had drawn forward for her. 

‘‘ Yes,” he assented, slowly, yes, it is well. I could not 
have died in peace, unless — unless — the black velvet bag, 
Ninetta — where is it?” 

Nina picked up the bag from the place where it had fallen 
on the pillow, close by his hand, and placed it once more in 
his cold palm. 

“ Here it is, Giuseppe.” 

Then go, Ninetta — leave me alone a little while with the 
signora. You are not afraid?” with a glance at Ida. 

No,” she answered, quietly. “I am not afraid. Why 
should I be?” 

Surely — why should you be?” he slowly repeated. “ It 
is the living who wreak their vengeance on one another. A 
dying man can harm no one — and I am a dying man!” 

Why do you not send for a priest?” she asked, pityingly, 
as a spasm of pain contracted his features. 

A priest!” he echoed, bitterly. “ I have lived without a 
priest, and I do not need the help of one to die. I am no 
puling child or chattering old woman; yet, to please Ninetta, 
1 shall let her send for a priest by and by, but not now.” 

What is it that you wished to say to me, Giuseppe?” said 
Ida, breaking the ice at once, for she felt that she could not 
long endure delay. Neither had the man before her many 
moments in which to shrive his parting soul. 

Much, signora — much. But, first, you must promise me 
forgiveness for all!” 

‘‘ For what?” she asked. 

“ For everything!” he answered, emphatically. 

It is promised,” she said, with a look of compassion. For 
who could cherish thoughts of bitterness or revenge toward 
one who stood on the awful verge of the unseen world? What- 
ever crimes he had 'committed, whatever weight of sin lay on 
his soul, he was dying now, and the aegis of divine mercy, 
faintly reflected on human souls, shielded it all. 

I am glad you have promised that,” he said, slowly. ‘‘ It 
would have been harder for you to have spoken the words, 
after you have heard it — after I have told you—” 

Told me what?” 


IDA CHALONI'Ji^S HEAKT. 


281 


‘‘ That I have deceived you all your life long/’ 

“ I have never believed you to be true, Giuseppe/^ she said, 
bitterly. ‘‘ It is no news that you have deceived me, but — 1 
do not comprehend you— Madame Avioli is not my mother?’^ 

A sudden gleam of light seemed to flash through the dark 
mystery of her fate — a possibility of escape which made her 
heart beat faster and more unevenly. 

Madame Avioli ts your mother,^' Giuseppe answered, 
slowly. 

Ida’s clasped hands fell to her knee — the transient gleam 
was fading out in darkness. 

‘‘Listen, Mrs. Delamere/’ said Giuseppe. “Madame 
Avioli is your mother, but it was not her hand that dealt the 
fatal blow to Pierre L’Echelle’s heart. She is as innocent as 
a babe — as pure as a flower. Moreover, she never knew that 
aught like the shadow of suspicion of so foul a crime rested on 
her name. How should she?” 

“ My mother,” murmured Ida, with a new sweetness in the 
word— a sudden thrill of joy, like a sepulchered hope rising up 
from the sealed stone of death; “ my mother, and I have re- 
pulsed her so cruelly. Oh, what will she think of me? How 
can slie comprehend my conduct?” 

“ You forget, signora, that she never knew you were her 
child, she could not deem you undutiful,” explained Giuseppe, 
slowly. 

“ True, true!” exclaimed Ida. “ Thank Heaven for that 
at least; her heart has been spared a double rending. Oh, my 
mother— my poor mother! But how — why — ” 

“ Patience, Signora Ida, and I will tell you all, if only — ” 

“ One thing first, Giuseppe. If it were not she, who — who 
murdered Pierre L’Echelle — who was it?” 

“It was I!” 

“You, Giuseppe?” 

“ Ah, you may well shrink away from me in horror and 
dismay,” he said, in low, deep accents. “ 1 am the mur- 
derer — his blood is on my hands, l^or do I regret it!” 

“ Ob, Giuseppe!” she shuddered, “ this is too horrible!” 

“I hated the man,” said Giuseppe, with a baleful glitter 
in the eyes that were already dim and glazed. “ I hated him, 
and I murdered him. Justice can not reach me now. Death 
will be beforehand with the law. Do you ask me why 1 cher- 
ished the bitter hate? 1 will tell you. Signora Ida! He had 
treated me like a dog always. I would have been faithful — 
nay, I might even have learned to love him, for there is some- 
what of good in every human soul, even mine. Signora Ida; 


S83 


IDA CHALOKKk’s TTDABT. 


but he struck me down like a dog one night because I had 
erred in carrying out some order that he had given. From 
that moment I vowed to be revenged; and i carried the vow 
in my heart, as only an Italian can do. He was generous at 
times, he was even liberal — but he never was kind. I need 
not tell you all that tended to strengthen my resolve, and add 
evil weight to the vow 1 had registered. You remembered 
Pierre L’Echelle; you can not wonder that one who was ex- 
posed to the constant fury of his ill-temper and changing 
moods should weary of them! Well, Signora Ida, you can 
not have forgotten the night the old priest came from the 
country to take you away?^^ 

“ I remember it well,^^ said Ida, in a low voice. How all 
the past seemed to rise up before her like the spectral figures 
in a dim phantasmagoria! How strangely the is and zvas 
blended at the death-bed of Giuseppe Antonardi! 

“ My heart was sore and bitter toward him then. More- 
over, I knew that he had jewels of great value with him — the 
Adenham diamonds. I have not time to tell you of them 
now, but some day you will learn their history. Eemember 
the Adenham diamonds. We were staying there to see you 
off. My master had good reason for keeping his eye on you, 
Signora Ida; and even after you supposed he had left . you, he 
stayed on quietly, to make sure that you were safely on the way 
to your new home. It was not that he loved you — I don^t 
think he ever loved a human creature in his life — but it was 
his interest. Your mother was at the same hotel that night. 

My mother — yes, you told me so.'’^ 

“ Your mother. Signora Ida. What singular freak of chance 
or destiny sent her thither I know not, but she was there. So 
much of the story I told you years ago was true. Fate weaves 
her web strangely, and it so happened that your mother, pass- 
ing through the hotel corridors, saw her brother, Pierre 
L^Echelle, through an open door. I know not how it hap- 
pened, for I was on the watch all the while. It seemed as if 
the dial of destiny lay uncovered before my eyes. I was com- 
mitting no crime; i was simply the instrument of a higher 
fate.^^ 

Go on, Giuseppe, urged Ida. 

“ They talked together long and earnestly. I could hear 
some words from my lurking-place, others I could not. She 
was begging and praying of him to return her child to her. I 
think the piteous words she used would have melted even my 
heart, but his was of adamant. 


IDA chaloner’s heart. 283 

She did not, then, abandon me — my mother gasped 
Ida, eagerly. 

No— you were taken from her — she would have given the 
world, had it been hers, to have you back again; but 1 can 
not tell you all this,^^ said Giuseppe, with a movement of 
impatience. ‘‘ Finally, she left him in despair — and then — 
Satan entered into my heart, or else the hand of Providence 
prompted me. I am no casuist to know the dilference, and 
something told me that his hour was come. The door was 
closed, but 1 opened it softly. I had learned his own cat-like 
movements from him, and I was a worthy scholar/^ added 
Giuseppe, with a smile of bitter exultation. 

‘‘ He sat before the fire, just where the light shone and 
sparkled on the Adenham diamonds, spread out before him, 
for he was a miser in his way, and loved to gloat over his 
hoards. I had seen him employed in the same way many a 
time before, and 1 hM always had this final scene in my 
mind!^^ 

He was silent for a moment or two, breathing short and 
fast, and then resumed: 

“ It was but the work of an instant. My hand was swift, 
my aim sure — he fell with a groan. I drew the dagger out — 
it was a foreign toy that belonged to himself and which I had 
secreted weeks before — and gathered up the gems, casket and 
all. Iji my nervousness I let the dagger fall. I searched for 
it, but could not find it — a step on the hall floor without 
startled me and 1 abandoned the search. What more did I 
want? I had secured the diamonds and I had wrought out 
my revenge, fully and enilrely. As I crept out, still lurking, 
to the doors where I had seen and heard so much, the pas- 
sengers were taking coach for the next express train. Your 
mother was among them. 1 said to myself that it was well 
ordered so — if suspicion arose let it fall on the woman whom I 
could testify had visited his room late at night, who had 
spoken of revenge, of hatred, in whose veins ran the hot, vin- 
dictive blood of the L^'Echelles. Who so likely to have com- 
mitted the crime as she?^^ 

“ Monster!^'' cried Ida, shrinking away from him, but 
Giuseppe seemed scarcely to heed her as he went on with the 
details of his strange story. 

I smiled to myself as I thought of the murdered man 
lying in his blood, and the building full of life and motion 
and bustle around him, so unconscious of the death that was 
stiffening in their midst. Such, 1 said, was human justice. 
When I got to my room which was close by, I washed away 


284 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


the stains from my hands and sat down to reflect. One would 
think the brain would be dizzy and bewildered afc such a time, 
but mine never was clearer. Bene — what is the use of linger- 
ing over the old forgotten story. The inquest followed — you 
remember it well. You were a child, but you were a child 
who noted and observed things. No suspicion fell on me, the 
faithful, heart-broken servant, consequently it was not neces- 
sary to fabricate any lie to avert evil coijsequences. I assumed 
the burial expenses; it was not wise to court too much inquiry 
or bring about legal investigations. And 1 — 1 was so devoted 
a retainer. The jury were melted, some of them, to tears. 
Bah! what a humbug this vaunted human nature is!^^ 

“ Giuseppe, no more of this,^’ said Ida, authoritatively. 
It is no time for you to assume a tone like this!^^ 

‘‘ Time — time,^^ repeated Giuseppe, as if he had hardly com- 
prehended her. ‘‘ Yes, it is growing short, but I have little 
more to tell. I did not see you again for nearly six years — 
where would have been the use? You were poor-— friendless!^' 
“Not friendless, Giuseppe!" she interrupted, the color ris- 
ing to her cheeks. 

“ Friendless as far as your protectors could do me aught of 
good; moreover, I had lost all trace of your mother. With 
every knowledge of your history and whereabouts I could have 
extracted any amount of money from her; it would have been 
a mint for me, but she seemed to have disappeared totally. 1 
could not even ascertain if she was dead or living, although 
my search was long and faithful. I had the diamonds unset 
— we Italians have always plenty of friends to help us in any 
such little job — and I sold them one by one, as opportunity 
offered. I might have grown rich on them if I had not con- 
tracted the ruinous habit of risking little for much — the habit 
that men call gambling. Luck did not look favorably on me. 
I lost, and lost, without one redeeming glimpse of future re- 
sults. When I accidentally saw you in Paris, I was reduced 
to poverty — almost to begging and rags. People are divided 
into two classes — the wolves and the lambs. One prey, the 
other is preyed upon. What would you have? It was not my 
fault that I was a wolf! We are not our own masters, and I 
must live some way. So, Signora Ida, I relied upon you. I 
told you an ingenious story — you believed it. It was a lie, but 
it served my purpose as well as if it had been the gospel truth." 

“ How could you have been so cruel, Giuseppe?" shuddered 
Ida, as she remembered the dark train of consequences which 
had followed upon his falsity. 

“ Cruel! What was I to do?. 1 could not starve, signora! 


TDA CHA loner’s HEART. 


385 


One can not be fastidious when one is cold and hungry. Well, 
about that time I saw Madame Avioli herself — your mother. 
I could extort nothing from her — I had no hold on her, and I 
cursed myself bitterly that it was so. My interest was now to 
keep you two apart, and 1 did so, not unskillfully. Was there 
anything more to tell? Stay, signora; you have had reason to 
hate me, yet you have not been unkind to me. There have 
been times when, if I had a conscience, it would have pricked 
me. 1 always meant to tell you this some time — some time 
when luck befriended me, and I was able to live without your 
help. I could have trusted you not to betray the murder, I 
think; but the time never came until now.” 

He fumbled at the clasp of the black velvet bag, and drew 
out a little pearl cross, wrapped in two or three different 
papers — a tiny thing, set in gold, with a slender gold chain 
attached to it, and laid it in Ida’s hand. 

“ If ever you see your mother again,” he said — “ she whom 
the world calls the Countess Avioli, but whom I knew as Bea- 
trice L’Echelle — give her this cross. She will know it well; 
1 took it from her baby’s neck the last night she saw it.” 

From my neck?” asked Ida. 

Yes, Signora Ida, from your neck.” 

Ida sat musing with quickened pulses on Giuseppe’s words. 

If ever she saw her mother again!” Until that moment the 
new, glad certainty of nestling to her mother’s heart had never 
been marred by the mere shadow of a doubt; now a dark 
dread crept into her soul. “ If ever!” Oh, surely, surely 
God would never, in His infinite mercy, lift the cloud of 
separation from their hearts only to let it fall again darker and 
denser than before! She had wounded her mother cruelly and 
relentlessly; it was her own loving hand which must pour the 
balm of a daughter’s tenderness into the wound. She had 
been so alone all her life — she had so unutterably pined for 
the sweet name of mother. Was it to be but an empty, hol- 
low-sounding word, after all? 

Giuseppe,” she said, slowly and gravely, ‘‘ you have done 
me a cruel wrong — a wrong that you can never set right again. 
For — ” As she spoke she remembered Eeginald Delamere’s 
broken heart and early doom — the estrangement that, through 
the agency of Giuseppe Antonardi, had risen up between her- 
self and her young husband. “ But 1 have promised to for- 
give you, nor do I recall the promise. May God be merciful to 
you. His erring creature!” 

Giuseppe looked at her with dreamy, bewildered eyes. 

It was murder,” he said, in a scarcely audible tone; 


2S6 


IDA CHALONER'S heart. 


murder, but he provoked it himself. Did he not strike me 
— me, an Italian, with free blood in my veins, and not a 
slave 

“ Giuseppe, pleaded Ida, leaning over his couch with the 
pearl cross in her hands, ‘‘ try to forget all that. Try only to 
remember your prayers — your entreaties to the great God at 
whose bar you will stand so soon. 

For his face had grown strangely drawn and haggard, and 
the ash-gray hue of the corpse was already suffusing his fore- 
head, while the lids drooped heavily over his glassy eyes. 

‘‘ Giuseppe, shall 1 call the woman and the priest?^^ 

There was no answer, and Ida, now terrified lest she should 
be alone in the room with death, sprung to the door, and, 
opening it, called aloud for help. 

The summons was at once answered. Nina, who was rock- 
ing herself to and fro in the hall crying softly — for she had a 
warm and loyal heart, this poor Italian woman, although she 
had not not seen her one brother for years, and had been 
almost an outcast from his affection — rose up immediately and 
ran into the room, while the good old Catholic priest, sum- 
moned from an adjoining apartment — where he was nodding 
over his book — for he had been up all night with other depart- 
ing souls, joined her presently. 

“ YouM better step in here, miss, and sit down a bit,^^ said 
Eleanor, the bold-faced girl of the sewing-machine, who stood 
leaning against the door-way. 

But Mrs. Delamere shook her head; she was pallid and 
trembling, and felt that she could endure no more. 

'No/' she said; ‘‘ you are a relative of his?^^ with a motion 
of her head toward the adjoining room. 

‘‘ He^s my uncle, miss — mother ^s brother. Mother was 
born in Italy, but father, he is an Irishman. 

Here is money, said Ida, hastily emptying the contents 
of her purse into the hands which Eleanor stretched forth with 
vulture-like avidity. ‘‘ Tell your mother to spend it for his 
burial expenses. He was a servant of mine for years I'’ ^ 

Eleanor thought it quite unnecessary to mention to the lib- 
erally disposed young lady that Uncle Giuseppe, as she had 
been taught to call the man who was dying upstairs, was a 
man of not inconsiderable property. 

Money always came convenient in a family like theirs, and 
to refuse it — no matter on what ground it was offered — 
Miss Eleanor considered an act of absolute idiocy. 

‘‘Thank ye kindly, miss, she said, dropping an abrupt 


IDA CHA LONER HEART* 2S7 

sort of courtesy and pocketing the money. be sure to 

tell her.^’ 

And then, by way of relieving her overcharged feelings, she 
gave a brisk box on the ear to the smallest of the two children, 
who had disagreed on the subject of broken crockery, and who 
was now engaged in a scuffle over a kitten, and bade the elder 
one sit down and be quiet, at least until poor Uncle Giuseppe 
could die in peace/ ^ 

At the same moment a crooked, bent old woman, so de- 
crepit with years that she could hardly hobble, put her hand 
coaxingly on Ida^'s shoulder. 

“ ^Tain^t the young as needs money, dearie; it^s the old 
and feeble, such as me. YouVe got a bonny face, little rose 
— and, ril be bound, a good heart, too! Give me a little of 
the money, and Pll engage you^ll never miss it/^ 

Ida turned and recognized, with a shudder, in the deformed 
hag before her, mouthing and toothless, and wrinkled like a 
piece of dried leather, the same old crone who years before had 
sat before the gypsy fire in the Deepdale woods and torn the 
bracelets from her arms and the shining gold necklace from 
her throat in her insatiable greed for gold. 

Ida^s memory for faces was good, and she knew that she 
was not mistaken in the identity, although the old woman evi- 
dently had no idea who she was. The smell of the autumn 
woods, the crackling of the huge wood fire, even the song of 
insects in the distance, all seemed to rise up before her once 
again, and with it the sick feeling of fear which had thrilled 
her heart at the touch of those talon-like fingers. She put 
money into the yellow palm, and the old woman stepped back, 
mumbling her thanks and blessings, to make way for the 
priest, who came out of the room beyond at the same moment. 

‘‘ Is he dead?’^ asked Ida, looking up into the mild face of 
the ecclesiastic. 

“He is gone, my daughter, was the gentle reply; “ and 
may the blessed saints have mercy on his soul — a dark and 
wicked man, without even the redeeming virtue of faith. 

Ida descended the stairs, feeling as if the close and sultry 
atmosphere must suffocate her, and entered the carriage, 
which, surrounded by a swarm of children, was waiting at the 
door. 

“ Where to, ma^am?^^ asked the driver, as he descended to 
close the door. 

“ Drive to the New Haven depot, was the answer. 

And so Ida Delamere was done forever with Giuseppe An- 
tonardi. 


m 


IDA CHA loner’s HEART. 


CHAPTEK XLIL 

HOME TO BEECHCLIFE. 

The soft, misty opal of (ho summer evening was infolding 
the bright hills and velvety meadoirs of the beautiful country 
surrounding the New York and New Haven Eailroad track, 
and the stars were shining peacefully down from a sky as blue 
and cloudless as that we read of as belonging only to a south- 
ern atmosphere, as Ida Delamere sat with her arm resting on 
the open window, and looked dreamily out into the enchanted 
haze ot earth and heaven, seeing nothing of the fresh beauty 
that surrounded her, for her heart and b^i^ain were alike full. 

Full of a soft, vague happiness that was part real and part 
anticipatory — a happiness that she would not stop to analyze, 
content to revel in it just as it was. For the first time in 
years she felt that she could see a bright, unclouded future be- 
fore her — that she could close her happy eyes and wait for 
God’s gift of peace and love to come to her. The haunting 
shadow was gone — the vague sense of guilt and shame had 
passed out of the world, with the spirit of Giuseppe Antonardi, 
and the constant shadowing dread that followed her like an 
unquiet spirit was exorcised at last. 

But first and brightest of all her half-formed visions of hap- 
piness was that of laying her hand in Frederic Dorrillon’s, 
and saying to him: “ The barrier that separated our two 
hearts has passed away; 1 am free to love you now. ” 

‘‘ I wonder,” she thought, with the shy dimples dotting the 
faintest tracing of a smile around her lips, as she sat watching 
the wooded landscape sweep by, “ what he thought when he 
read my note? Did it seem very cold and brief to him? I 
wish I had made it a little gentler. But it don’t matter now, 
I shall see him so scon.” 

And then Ida relapsed once more into the sweet quietude of 
contemplation, thinking how ineffable was this new happiness 
now dawning upon her. 

‘‘ Yes,” she mused, scarcely venturing to syllable the fan- 
cies even to herself, this is love. I have so much to think 
of, but I can only think of him; he fills my whole heart. I 
look at this new life as 1 imagine he will see it. I keep im- 
agining to myself what he will say — how he will look. He is 
my sun, and I am the little planet content to revolve around 
it, happy because his light shines on me. He is my world — 
my king — my loveP^ 


IDA CHALOKER^'S HEART. 


^89 


What would not poor Ferdinand Fairfax have given if Ida 
could have thought of him in these burning phrases — if she 
could have worshiped him thus! Alas! for every happy heart 
in life a score are pining unrewarded. We can all strive, but 
the prize is awarded to only one. 

And then, happy in this full consciousness of loving and 
being loved, Ida’s wandering thoughts reverted to another 
theme — her mother. 

“ My mother!” she pondered. How long will it be before 
I can go and tell her that I am her lost child?” and as she 
mused she felt the little pearl cross rising and falling with the 
pulsations of her breast. “ She used to love me before — be- 
fore I threw her love away so heartlessly, as it must have 
seemed. 1 wonder if there was no deep, inner instinct of 
maternal love throbbing in the recesses of her heart when 
she sought the companionship of the young American girl, 
cherishing her most among the gay throng of Paris? God^s 
hand guides us by instinct sometimes — yet I refused that love, 
and repelled her tenderness. Will she love me still? Will she 
forget the past, and forgive my willful coldness? Mamma,” 
and Ida’s heart seemed to expand as she uttered, within her- 
self, the sweet word that it never had been her lot to speak be- 
fore — the word that means so much, and follows us, like a 
tender echo, to the very threshold of another world. ‘‘ Mam- 
ma! And we shall go to her together perhaps, Frederic and 
I — I shall bring to her a son as well as a daughter; she will be 
twice blessed, yet it will scarce be enough to recompense her 
for all these years of solitude and loneliness. Poor, poor 
mamma! And this mystery of my early life — my lonely, neg--* 
lected girlhood — the isolation that surrounded my girlish years, 
it will all be explained! I am coming into all my inheritance 
of love at last, and I shall be the richest heiress that the world 
ever knew!” 

With these happy fancies and meditations filling her mind, 
it was sacrcely strange that the homeward journey seemed 
wondrously short to Ida Delamere — that the long country 
drive, after the train had stopped at Kew Haven, possessed 
very little of the tediousness which generally characterized it. 
Again and again Ida pictured to herself her meeting with 
Dorrillon, after their brief separation — what she should say to 
him — how she should express to him all that lay within her 
heart without overstepping that invisible limit of womanly 
delicacy which she had learned to reverence still more than do 
those who grow up encompassed round about with motherly 
admonitions and the care of innumerable female friends. 

10 


IDA CHALOI^EE^S HEAET. 


290 

Beechcliff was dark and silent when she reached it — save in 
one window, that of Mrs. Hyde^s room, where a solitary light 
shone out. Well, she could hardly have expected otherwise — 
it was long after midnight — and yet Ida was inconsistent 
enough to feel a little pang of regret that Dorrillon had not 
sat up late into the small hours of the night for the mere 
possibility of the pleasure of hearing the carriage wheels of her 
return grate upon the graveled sweep. Mrs. Hyde, carrying 
a lamp in her band, answered her summons at the bell-wire. 

“ Bless and save us, Mrs. Delamere!^^ she cried, shading 

her eyes with her hand. “ It^s you, is it? Welcome back 

again to Beechcliff, though I didn^t look for you quite so soon, 
to he sure. 

‘‘ 1 am sure it seems to me as if I had been away an age,^^ 

said Ida, wrapping her shawl about her, with a slight shiver, 

as she passed through the door, held wide open for her by the 
housekeeper. 

You don^t bring us any bad news, I hope?‘^ said Mrs. 
Hyde, wistfully. 

Oh, no; my news, such as it is, is all good,^^ answered 
Ida. “ Mathilde is upstairs, I suppose?^^ 

“ Yes, ma’am; but what will you have before you go up? 
A cup of chocolate, or a glass of wine, or a little fruit?’^ 

Nothing, Mrs. Hyde, thank you.” 

Then shall I send you up something to your own room?” 

No; I’m not hungry — I dined before I left New York. 
They are all well at Beechcliff, I suppose?” 

All well, ma’am, thank you.” 

And Ida ran lightly upstairs to her own room. 

There was a dim light burning in the anteroom, and the 
door communicating with Mathilde ’s apartment was open. 
The young damsel was lying, dressed, upon the outside of the 
bed, evidently intending to rise and disrobe herself when it 
was too late to expect the possibility of her mistress’s return 
for that night. 

But in the meantime she had fallen fast asleep, one round 
cheek resting on her hand, and her bright, brown hair tum- 
bling all about the pillow. 

She started up at the sound of Mrs. Delamere cautiously 
closing the door and came into the anteroom with French 
demonstrativeness. 

^‘Madame has then returned. Ah, but it was too good 
fortune to anticipate; and madame has been away — see, only 
the one day. Ah, but Beechclill has been solitary and lonely 
as a hermit’s cave with madame gone. Is there nothing 1 can 


IDA CHALONEE^S HEAET. 


291 


bring madame to eat or to drink? There are white grapes 
down-stairs, such as were never brought in before this year — 
and some rolls, most delicious, and with a glass of wine — 

No, Mathilde, 1 am not hungry; I could eat nothing. 
Take my things, and 1 will go to bed at once.'’^ 

Madame is most prudent — the best thing in the world 
after madame^s long journey;^'’ and Mathilde bustled officiously 
about, patting down the laced linen cambric of the ruffled 
pillow-cases, and moving chairs hither and thither as if con- 
tinual motion were a necessity. 

“ I suppose all the visitors have retired long ago, Mathilde?'’^ 
said Mrs. Delamere, a little wistfully, as the girl began to 
brush out her black masses of hair a few minutes later, with 
qrick, skillful fingers. 

“ Oh, yes, long since, said Mathilde. ‘‘ They retired early 
to-night; the house was desolee without madame 

Ida smiled a little at Mathilde's transparent fiattery. Sud- 
denly the girl dropped the brush. 

“ Oh, I had all but forgotten, madame — a note from Mr. 
Dorrillon, which he charged me to give you before he went 
away.'’^ 

“ Before he went away, Mathilde?^^ exclaimed Ida. “ Is he 
gone from Beechclifi.-’^ 

Yes, madame. 

“ Where?^^ 

‘‘ I do not know, madame. His note will perhaps explain. 

Mathilde was evidently embarrassed. She turned red and 
white as she stood fingering the cut-glass scent-bottles on the 
toilet-table, and avoided her mistress’s eyes. 

Where is the note?’^ asked Ida. 

She had grown pale, and a curious sensation of chilliness 
thrilled through her veins at the tidings spoken by Mathilde. 
Was it the premonition of coming evil? Was the fair sunshine 
to be so soon overcast? 


CHAPTEK XLIII. 

GONE. 

Mathilde brought the note — a simple sheet of paper, folded 
twice, and inclosed in an ordinary white envelope bearing the 
cipher of F. D.^'’ curiously entwined on its outside. Ida 
took it into her hand with a pang of foreboding. 

“ You may go, Mathilde,'’^ she said. “ I shall want noth- 
ing more of you to-night.’^ 

The French girl lingered a second or two under pretense ol 


292 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


picking up a glove which had fallen half under the draperies 
of the toilet-table; but Ida^s words of dismissal, spoken a second 
time, in accents sufficiently sharp and decided to admit of no 
misconstruction, effectually banished her from the room. 

And then, with a long, shuddering breath, Ida advanced 
toward the clusters of wax-candles which Mathilde ha,d lighted 
on either side of the dressing-bureau, and broke the seal of 
Frederic Dorrillon^s letter. 

It was brief: that she could perceive at the first glance; 
but as she read on the color faded out of her cheek, and a 
wild, hunted light glittered in her eyes. 

“Mrs. Delamere (the cruel words seemed like knives 
piercing into her heart), “ I do not know why I humble my- 
self to write to one who cares so little for me. Surely it was. 
not necessary to leave Beechcliff in order to convince me how 
unacceptable were my attentions. I could have instantly rid 
you of my presence at one word had you taken the trouble to 
speak it. Be assured that you will never see me again. I 
accept the answer implied, and only ask that you will forgive 
my presumption, and forbear from judging too harshly one 
who passes forever out of your world with the closing words of 
this letter. And, although I am now thoroughly convinced 
that you never can be mine, I still remain, 

“ Yours, eternally, whether in life or in death, 

“Frederic Dorrillon.^’ 

The note fell from between Ida^s nerveless fingers, as she 
sunk back in one of the low chintz-cushioned chairs; the 
tidings contained in its curt lines seemed to strike her like a 
blow. She could scarcely comprehend at first the full meaning 
contained in them, but kept repeating over and over again to 
herself, in a vague, purposeless sort of way: 

“ Gone — gone to leave me. And just when the barriers 
were broken that separated us. Oh, God in heaven! what 
have I done to deserve this new calamity? Why should Thy 
vengeance follow me thus?^^ 

Then starting up, she read the note again, and yet a third 
time, scrutinizing every line, as if she would seek out some 
hidden meaning that might perchance lurk beneath the mask 
of ordinary phraseology. But no; cold and cruel as the points 
of so many glittering daggers, the words stared her in the face. 

Pressing her hand to her throbbing forehead, she endeavored 
to recall to herself the exact tenor of the note she had written 
to him so short a time ago. 

“ I am sure — sure/^ she repeated to herself, “ that it con- 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


293 


tained no dismissal; it only requested him to await my return. 
How could h3 possibly thus misconstrue my meaning? Or did 
I, in my ha&te, word my communication more ambiguously 
than I intended? No; I am quite certain that 1 merely asked 
him to postpo ie our interview— to excuse it. And he has 
gone — 

The mere effort of recollection shot a torturing pain through 
poor Ida^s overtasked brain — involuntarily she pressed her 
hand to her head. 

J wonder if I am going to be ill?’^ she asked herself. I 
wonder if brain fever is like this pain. And if — if I should 
die. But oh, no, no, I can not die until I have felt my 
mother^s arms around me. Oh, mother, mother, why are 
you not by my side to help me bear the crudest of all the 
blows that has yet fallen on me!^^ 

And Ida burst into a storm of hysterical weeping, which soon 
brought Mile. Mathilde to her side, in an od^ dishabille of 
cambric, curl papers, and slippers. 

“ Ah,^^ cried Mathilde, effusively, ‘‘ madame is then ill. 
Madame is worn out with her journey. A little quieting 
draught — a few drops of red lavender and valerian in a glass 
of water. Nay,^^ as Ida motioned her away, “but madame 
must!^^ 

And Mrs. Delamere was too wearied and exhausted to resist 
the maid’s well-meaning importunities. 

“ It is of no use,” she said, leaning helplessly back while 
Mathilde undressed her with deft fingers; “ all the opiates in 
the world could not make me sleep now. ” 

But she was wrong. Hardly had her head touched the 
pillow when she fell into a deep, heavy slumber, partaking 
almost of the character of a trance — and as her closed palm 
relaxed the crumpled letter fell from it upon the ,fioor. 
Glancing cautiously around the room, Mathilde picked it up, 
and creeping toward the light, hurriedly read the contents. 

“ Ah — h — !” she whispered, in accents of measureless con- 
tent. “ Thanks be to the blessed saints, madame will never 
know from this that monsieur did not get her hillet-donx. 
And, after all,” recurring to the one consolation of her plastic 
soul, “ it was no fault of mine.” 

And still moving with that cat-like tread of hers, which 
would not have disturbed a mouse, Mathilde once more dropped 
the letter precisely where it had fallen from her lady’s hand. 

“ I may as well go to bed now,” thought Mile. Mathilde, 
with a yawn. “ These late hours, ma foi! they do not agree 


294 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAKT. 


with one’s complexion. I shall be yellow and wrinkled before 
I am forty at this rate. ” 

But, although Mile. Mathilde felicitated herself upon what 
she termed her good fortune, she was perhaps a little pre- 
mature, as the current of our narrative will show. 

Ida woke the next morning with that dull, heavy conscious- 
ness of some overhanging calamity which we all of us have 
sustained at some period or other of our lives, and the sight of 
the crumpled note on the floor instantly supplied the missing 
clew. Covering her face with her hands, she turned away 
from the vivid sunshine and fresh, hay-scented air, which 
seemed to mock at her grief; and yet, at the same time a 
keen pang of self-reproach pierced her whole nature. 

‘‘ How ungrateful I am,” thought she, “ thus to break my 
heart for a man’s love, when God has just bestowed upon me 
the priceless gift of a mother! And yet — yet the world is 
desolate to me now. I may learn to be contented in a still, 
emotionless sort of way — flowers do grow in the shade, and 
precious stones shine far down in the prison deeps of dayless 
mines — but I never can be happy, in the true meaning of the 
word, now that he has gone and left me!” 

Yet she rose up as usual, and breakfasted in her own room, 
where she was visited by Angie Gresham, all curiosity to know 
the secret of her friend’s sudden and mysterious journey. 

“ I can not tell you now, Angie dear,” Ida said, passing her 
hand across her forehead. “ It was on business — very im- 
portant business. Some time, darling, I will tell you all 
about it.” 

Fortunately, Angie’s heart was too full of her own shy, 
maidenly happiness to be as demonstratively curious as she 
might otherwise have been, and, to her great relief, Ida was 
presently left to herself. 

But she had enjoyed the luxury of solitude but a short time, 
when Mrs. Hyde tapped at the door. 

“ 1 am sorry to interrupt you, ma’am,” said that discreet 
and useful functionary, “ but Esther, the house-maid, has just 
brought me a note that she found slipped down between the 
outside frame and the springs of Mademoiselle Mathilde’s bed. 
Mathilde complained that the springs were stiff, so I was 
having them taken out to be loosened a little, ma’am, and 
Esther found this note.” 

“Is it directed to me?” Ida asked, listlessly, without even 
lifting her eyes from the interior of her writing-desk, 

Mrs. Hyde coughed behind her hand. 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 295 

“ No;, ma^am, it’s not directed to you/’ said she. “ But 1 
think it is in your handwriting. ” 

As she spoke, she laid the sealed letter on the table at Mrs. 
Delaniere’s side; and with a thrill of strangely mingled emo- 
(••ions, Ida recognized the note she herself had written to Fred- 
eric Dorrillon on the evening of her departure to visit the 
death-bed of Giuseppe Antonardi. 

He never had received it, then. No wonder that he left 
Beechclilf, cut to the heart by her seeming neglect and con- 
tempt; no wonder that he had bid her an eternal farewell. 
With an instinctive impulse, Ida rose and stretched forth her 
hands, as if she would call him back from the echoless dis- 
tance, uttering, in the same instant, a low, yearning cry. 

And then, fully comprehending at least how vain and futile 
was all earthly endeavor to bridge the chasm of fate, she sat 
down and buried her face in her hands. 

You are not ill, ma’am?” solicitously questioned Mrs. 
Hyde — and Ida collected herself with an effort. 

“ No, I am not ill,” she answered. “ Please send Mathilde 
to me at once, Mrs. Hyde.” 

And Mathilde presently came, all unconscious of the storm 
which was so soon to break upon her devoted head. 

“ Madame wishes to lay her commands upon me?” she 
twittered, as usual. 

“ Mathilde,” said Ida, sternly and coldly, with an ominous 
glitter in her eyes which the girl had never seen before there, 
“ you were bid deliver this letter into Mr. Dorrillon’s hand. 
How dared you disobey me?” 

One glance at the sealed letter in her mistress’s hand was 
sufficient proof to Mile. Mathilde that her perfidy was dis- 
covered. She clasped her hands theatrically. 

“Madame knows it all, then,” cried she. “Madame is 
aware that I was so unfortunate as to lose the note. How or 
where, I swear I do not know. Madame gave it to me at 
night, in the morning it was gone. Alas! alas! it was not 
my fault. I searched everywhere — I wept — I tore my hair. 
Who, then, was so base as to steal it from me?” 

“No one stole it, Mathilde,” said Mrs. Delamere, convinced 
by the girl’s manner that she really was speaking the truth. 
“ Esther found it wedged in between the springs and the 
frame of your bed. You were culpably careless thus to lose 
it.” 

Matihlde burst into tears. 

“ Ah, madame, pardon —forgive. But what could I do?” 

“ You could at least have told Mr. Dorrillon that you had 


296 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


been charged with a note to him, which was lost. You could 
have confessed your blame to me immediately on my return. 

‘‘ Ah, madame, how could I know it was so important? I 
told myself: ‘ Bon Mathilde, you have been unfortunate in- 
deed, but perhaps there is no harm done;^ and as long as 
madame did not ask me in so many words — 

“That will do, Mathilde,^^ said Ida, sternly. “Another 
such act of deceit and treachery as this, and you leave my 
service forever. 

Once more Mathilde broke into sobs. 

“ I meant it not for treachery, madame, she wailed; “ it 
was but my evil fortune. 1 should be wretched away from 
madame. 

And, after a fashion, Mathilde spoke the truth. Next to 
herself, she loved her beautiful young mistress the best of any- 
thing in the world. 

“ You have received a lesson, said Ida, gravely. “ Let it 
be sufficient for all future time.^^ 

And Mathilde retreated, whimpering and crying, from her 
lady^s presence, while Ida sat down with contracted brows and 
absent eyes, to consider what was best to be done. She had 
been stern and sharp with Mathilde, but, nevertheless, a great 
weight was lifted from her heart. If this separation were the 
result, as now appeared, of a mere misunderstanding, perhaps 
all might yet be well. Identifying herself with Frederic Dor- 
rillon, she could actually feel the pang of heart-break and 
v/ounded pride with which he compelled himself to accept the 
fact of her strange and unaccountable silence — to draw the 
only possible inference, to write that letter which had smitten 
down her new-born happiness as the reaper^s sickle smites 
down the tender grain. 

“ My love, my darling, she murmured to herself, with 
crimson cheeks and heart pulsing high with vague resolves and 
half-formed hopes, “ I will yet conquer fate, and all shall be 
well again 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

BAFFLED O JST C E MORE. 

From the peculiar circumstances in which she had of late 
years been placed, Ida Delamere had learned, in a great de- 
gree, to depend upon herself, and her plans for the future 
were soon formed. The longing for a mother^s love and sym- 
pathy, a mother’s advice and counsel, in this great emergency 
of her life, had waxed almost sickening in its strength and in- 


IDA CHALONEK’S HEAKT. 


297 


tensity, and Ida determined at once to seek out Mme. Avioli. 
Her address, she knew, could easily be found. From the 
chance conversation of some of her foreign friends at Beech- 
cliff, she had accidentally learned that the countess was at 
present living in Grosvenor Square, in London. The exact 
directions could, of course, be obtained from the London bank- 
ing-house, with whose silver-headed senior partner Mrs. Dela- 
mere was slightly acquainted. 

“ 1 will go first to my mother — my mother, Ida repeated, 
softly, to herself, her lips lingering with loving tenderness 
upon the syllables that were so new and so sweet to her. 
‘‘ She shall tell me what to do, and whither to turn.^^ 

And the members of the household at Beechcliff were a 
second time electrified to learn, the next morning, that their 
eccentric young hostess had taken an unceremonious leave of 
them. 

‘‘ But you are none of you to hasten your departure on that 
account,^^ said Angie Gresham, colonng like a pretty June 
rose. ‘‘ I am to take Ida^s place as hostess as long as you 
can, any of you, be induced to remain. 

And so people stayed on, secure of a warm welcome, until 
the original limit set to their visits had expired. Veritably, 
there was not much conventional form and ceremony at Beech- 
cliff. 

Meantime, Mrs. Delamere, accompanied only by Mathilde, 
proceeded at once to New York, whence she had resolved to 
embark in the next steamer that sailed for Europe. 

Stopping at a quiet hotel, near one of the pretty parks 
which form so beautiful a feature of the great city, she imme- 
diately instituted inquiries as to the sailing of the steamers, 
and learned, to her great satisfaction, that one would leave 
port the next Saturday, at noon. And this was Thursday. 

So far, so good. And now to while away the slow hours 
which lay between herself and the Saturday's noon. 

“ I will go and take a little walk in the park this after- 
noon,^^ said she, irresolutely. The air is fine — it will do me 
good.^^ 

Shall I accompany madame?^^ questioned the officious 
Mathilde. 

But Mrs. Delamere shook her head — she felt that she would 
rather be alone. 

She was crossing the street, when a carriage, drawn by two 
high-stepping and spirited horses, thundered unexpectedly 
around the corner. Ida uttered a slight scream; but a gentle- 
man who was crossing the street in the opposite direction made 


298 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


a grasp at the leader^s rein just in time to avert an almost 
certain catastrophe. 

“Be a little more careful next time, driver/’ he said, 
sternly, to the bewildered Jehu, who had nearly dropped his 
reins in his consternation, and then, turning to Mrs. Dela- 
mere, he dotted his hat to the slight, veiled lady. 

“ Do not be alarmed, madame,” he said. “ There is no 
further danger — and — ” 

But Ida had thrown up her veil, and advanced eagerly to- 
ward him. 

“ Mr. Dudley!” 

He stared in amazement. 

“ Can it be possible that this is Mrs. Delamere?” cried he. 
“ In town, and at this season of the year?” 

In an instant Ida had determined what course to pursue. 

“ Mr. Dudley,” she said, with that quiet, straightforward 
dignity which can not possibly be misconstrued, “ I am very 
glad I have met you, because I think you can possibly afford 
me some information regarding one of my late guests — Mr. 
Dorrillon.” 

“ Dorrillon? Why, of course I can,” said Dudley. “ Allow 
me to give you my arm across the street, unless,” he added, 
with a smile, “ you particularly wish to get run over. Dorrillon 
dined with me the day before yesterday. ” 

Ida's heart gave a great leap — the deep crimson blazed into 
her face. 

“ Can you give me his address?” she asked, striving to 
speak calmly. “ He left Beechcliff suddenly during my ab- 
sence, and I fear that I have unintentionally offended him. ” 

“ Certainly I can,” said Mr. Dudley, with a promptitude of 
speech that was sweeter than the sweetest music in Ida’s ears. 
“ He’s at St. Alfonso’s in upper Broadway, or was the day be- 
fore yesterday when 1 saw him. He didn’t seem then to^be 
quite decided in his mind whether he should start for the 
North Pole to look for Sir John Franklin, or go to investigate 
the sources of the Nile!” 

“ Can we not go there at once?” asked Ida, too much ab- 
sorbed in her own thoughts to notice his gay badinage. “ I 
want so much to see him.” 

“ Certainly, if you will accept my escort,” answered Mr. 
Dudley, secretly wondering how Mr. Dorrillon, lucky dog that 
he was, had contrived so deeply to interest the beautiful mis- 
tress of Beechcliff in his behalf. 

“ Is it far?” 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 299 

‘‘ Half a dozen blocks or so. 1^11 hail a coupe^ if you say 
so. 

I would rather walk/’ said Ida. For she felt that swift, 
continuous motion would afford the best escape- valve for the 
wildly stirring emotions of her heart. She could scarcely 
frame coherent answers for the light remarks of Mr. Dudley, 
so entirely was she preoccupied with her own reflections. 
Could it, indeed, be possible that this horrible nightmare of 
suspense and uncertainty was at last drawing to a close — that 
she should presently stand face to face with Frederic Dorrillon, 
the lord of her heart, the acknowledged ruler of her destiny? 

“You are not well, Mrs. Delamere,” said Dudley, pausing 
on the threshold of the St. Alfonso Hotel, and looking solicit- 
ously at her. 

“ Oh, yes, 1 am quite well,” asnwered Ida, with a start. 

“ But vou are so pale. Have I walked too fast for your 
strength?” 

“ No, no!” she cried, half wild with impatience. “ I can’t 
bear to creep like a snail. I always walk fast. Oh, do let us 
make haste!” 

Mr. Dudley led her into the ladies’ parlor, a somber apart- 
ment, rich with gilding, marqueteriey and Aubusson carpets, 
and rang the bell. 

“ For Mr. Dorrillon,” he said, giving his card to the waiter, 
who presently appeared. 

“ Mr. Dorrillon? Oh, yes, sah,” answered the waiter. 
“No. 60. Ain’t here no longer, sah. Left heah yes’-day. 
Sailed for Europe in the ‘ Euterpe,’ sah.” 

“ But it can’t be possible. He wouldn’t go without telling 
cried Dudley, aghast. 

“ Did, sah,” persisted the waiter, showing a double row of 
faultless African teeth. “ One ob our hacks done took him 
down to the pier. Oh, yes, sah, he’s gone, sure enough.” 

Baffled once more! 

Sick, and pale, and faint, Ida drew down her veil, and 
leaned back in the deep velvet chair in which she was sitting. 
Dudley turned to her. 

“Mrs. Delamere,” said he, “ I regret this disappointment 
as deeply as you do ” (Ida’s lips formed themselves into a 
bitter smile — how little he knew what he was saying!), “ but 
I can hardly be surprised when I remember how unsettled his 
plans were when last I saw him, and how moody and dispirited 
he seemed. In fact, I boldly asked him whether he had met 
with financial reverses, and advised him, as a friend, unhesi- 
tatingly to confide everything to the old admiral.’^ 


soo 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAET. 


Ida made no reply. She could not have uttered a consecu- 
tive sentence if she had tried just then, and presently Mr. 
Dudley spoke again: 

‘‘ Shall I accompany you home?^^ 

Ida shook her head. 

“ Call a hack, please, for me,’^ she said, in a low, stifled 
accent. 

“ Is there nothing further I can do for you?'^ 

Nothing; thanks!^^ 

Fifteen or twenty minutes afterward Ida Delamere found 
herself in her own room at the Allington Hotel, with the 
stunned, torpid sensation of one who has passed through some 
terrible shock, and escaped with the bare guerdon of life itself. 

‘‘ Gone — gone!^^ she cried out aloud, in the bitterness of 
her extremity, “ and I am just too late! Had I been but one 
day — one little day — earlier, I should have sailed in the 
same steamer with him — ^I should have met him face to 
face! But now a whole continent may divide us before I can 
reach England. Alas! I feel that I must lay down my sword 
and spear at last, and leave off striving against fate. I will 
go to London and rest my poor, tired heart awhile in the sun- 
shine of mother-love, and she will, perhaps, counsel me what 
to do.^^ 

And when the ‘‘ Salvator Eosa steamed gallantly out of 
New York Bay the ensuing Saturday, Mrs. Delamere stood 
upon the deck, with her eyes fixed longingly upon the spires 
and steeples that receded so steadily from her view. 

“ Good-bye, dear land of my adoption !^^ she murmured, 
softly. ‘‘ God grant that when I again return to you, I may 
bring a lighter heart!"^ 


CHAPTER XLV. 

MOTHER AMD CHILD. 

The roar and tumult of London terminus — how threaten- 
ingly it seemed to sound on Ida^s ears, as, worn and weary 
from travel, excitement, and lack of sleep, she stepped from 
the railway carriage upon the platform, leaning on Mathilde^s 
arm. That young person, addressing the cabman and hack- 
drivers, in a curious medley of French and English, probably 
induced by the confusion of countries through which she had 
lately passed, was, however, quite equal to the emergency, and 
conducted her mistress to a vehicle, whose driver solemnly de- 
clared that his was the only hack going in the direction in 
which lay the quiet family hotel mentioned by Ida, who had 


IDA CHALOKEK^S HEAKT. 


301 


stopped there with good Mme. d^Ancour long ago, at the 
close of the tour she had taken in her companionship during 
the first year of her widowhood. 

The first year of her widowhood! How long ago it seemed! 
Ida could almost have believed that she had lived half a 
century instead of barely the quarter of one. 

“ Will madame retire at once?’^ said Mathilde, when they 
had reached the hotel, and she had persuaded her mistress to 
drink a cup of very weak tea, and eat an infinitesimal slice of 
cold tongue, garnished with pale green parsley. 

“ 1 suppose so,^^ said Ida; ‘‘but I shall not sleep. My 
head aches so, and everything seems to swim round me.'’^ 

“ Madame is not going to be iV, surely, said Mathilde, ap- 
prehensively, as she look^ed at Mrs. Delamere^s pale face, and 
the blue rings round her heavy eyes. 

Ida did not answer; she was too weary even to notice the 
question. For the last few days her mind had been wound 
up to a tension whose strain had given way at last. The re- 
action had come, and within herself she felt a vague dread of 
fever, or insanity, or some overpowering illness. Well, per- 
haps it was better so, and yet she felt that she would not die 
without looking once more into her lover’s eyes, or having a 
mother’s words of love murmured into her ears. 

But there is no wiser physician than nature, and in the 
long, dreamless sleep that folded Ida about like a garment 
that night, came balm, and strength, and solace. She rose 
the next morning feeling like another creature, and even will- 
ing to indulge in some faint hope for the future. 

She dressed herself with care, after the breakfast which 
Mathilde had brought to her room, and smiled a little at the 
enthusiastic delight with which Mathilde hailed the returning 
glow of color in her cheeks. 

“ Madame has looked like a statue for the week past,” said 
Mathilde, “and now, grande del! her face is like a new- 
blown rose. Shall I bring my own bonnet? Madame doubt- 
less wishes me to attend her?” 

“No, Mathilde, I am going to Grosvenor Street alone. 
Call a hackney coach for me!” 

Mathilde obeyed, and presently returned with the news that 
the fiacre waited madame’s pleasure. 

Ida’s heart pulsed high with tremulous hopes and fears as 
the vehicle rattled noisily through the crowded London streets 
in the misty fog of the September morning. The moment she 
had so long dreamed of and anticipated was near at hand; 
surely no evil fate could rise up to mar her happiness now! 


302 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


The color came and went fitfully in her cheek as the hack- 
man jumped from his seat and threw open the door of the 
coach with a bang. 

“ ^Ere^s the place, ma’am. No. — Grosvenor Street. Will 
1 wait?’’ 

“ Yes; you may wait for me.” 

Ida glanced up at the house as she descended from the 
vehicle. It was a handsome red-brick mansion, built after the 
solid, substantial fashion of London houses, with stone facings 
and lintels, and an iron rail on either side of the shallow stone 
steps that led up to the door. The hackman rang the door- 
bell for her, before he returned to his seat on the box; and she 
stood waiting, almost ready to believe that it was all a delusion 
from which she would wake presently. A tall, solemn-looking 
man opened the door. 

‘‘ Is Madame Avioli at home?” asked Ida, in a low voice. 

“ Yes’m,” was the answer; “ she’s al’ays home afore 
twelve. Please walk in.” 

Through a softly carpeted hall he conducted the visitor to a 
large room, elegantly yet plainly furnished, with carpet and 
curtains of deep maroon, and tables scattered with books and 
flowers and little feminine trifles, while a deep easy-chair, 
drawn up in front of the grate, in which burned a fire of sea- 
coal, made not unnecessary by the rawness of the atmosphere, 
contained a crimson cashmere shawl, lying as if it had fallen 
from the shoulders of its recent occupant; and the clusters of 
newly cut roses, half lying on a table, half arranged in a 
slender-necked Bohemian vase of amber-tinted glass, betokened 
that the room had been vacant but a few minutes. 

‘‘What name, ma’am?” demanded the footman, pausing, 
with the door-knob in his hand as Ida advanced into the room. 

“ There is no name. I will announce myself. Tell her it 
is a lady — a friend of hers. ” 

“Yes’m,” said the footman, with a wondering stare, and 
once more Ida was left alone. 

It seemed as if he had scarcely closed the door, when it 
opened again, revolving noiselessly on its hinges, and Mrne. 
Avioli entered — Mme. Avioli, as beautiful as ever, in a light, 
fawn-colored silk morning-robe, trimmed with broad folds of 
cherry velvet, her soft brown hair as lustrous and luxuriant as 
ever, and her blue eyes instinct with the old liquid light which 
had once drawn Ida’s heart to hers. 

The look of surprise and expectation vanished from her 
countenance as she saw Ida’s face; the blush rose suddenly to 
her cheek. 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEAKT. 


303 


Mrs. Delamere!^^ she exclaimed. 

Yes, Madame Avioli, it is 
To see me?’^ 

Ida came to her with both hands extended and eyes suffused 
with tears. Mme. Avioli glanced into her face for one instant, 
and then, with an impulse which there was no resisting, clasped 
Ida to her breast. 

“Ida, my dearest, we understand each other at last!’’ she 
exclaimed, in a voice that was scarcely audible. 

“ Yes — at last!” murmured Ida. “ And you have forgiven 
me?” 

“ No— for I know now that I had nothing to forgive. But 
I have not yet learned to forgive myself,” was the whispered 
answer. 

Mme. Avioli drew Ida to a se^ beside her on the low sofa 
opposite the fire. 

“ Sit here, Ida,” she said, “ and tell me all about it. Only 
remember, dearest, it is seven years since we last met; and the 
last I heard of you, you were in Egypt, traveling with Madame 
d’Ancour. And here you walk in upon me in London, like a 
chapter out of our old Parisian life. Oh, I have so much to 
ask you — to explain to you!” 

“ I, too, have something to ask of you, Madame Avioli,” 
said Ida, the red and white signals fluttering in her cheek, and 
her pulse throbbing quicker as she felt the moment of her new 
happiness approaching. “ Let my question take precedence, 
please — just this once!” 

“ Ask on, dearest!” 

“ Madame Avioli — you had a daughter once — a dear and 
cherished child, who was taken away from you — but not by 
death?” 

Mme. Avioli’s cheek grew ashen pale; she dropped Ida’s 
hand, and rose to her feet, as if moved by some unseen im- 
pulse. 

“ Ida, why do you ask me this?’ she ejaculated. 

“You loved her, then?” 

“ I — loved her— oh, God, be merciful to me! as I loved my 
own soul. Her memory is dearer to me yet than all the world 
beside. Oh, Ida, Ida! why do you strive thus to break my 
heart?” 

“ Her memory?” softly repeated Ida; “ then she is dead?” 

“Dead, dead!” wailed Mme. Avioli, wringing her slender 
hands, and pacing wildly up and down the floor, with a look 
of settled anguish on her face which Ida had never before seen 
there; “ if she were not in her grave, my mother-heart would 


304 IDA CHA loner’s HEART. 

have led me to her long ago. Oh, my child — my child — my 
little lost love!” 

Are you sure she is dead.^” asked Ida, her voice thrilling 
the silence like the cooing tones of a dove, sad, yet infinitely 
sweet. 

Why do you wring my heart thus?” demanded Mme. 
Avioli, suddenly turning to Ida, with a piteous pleading in 
her look and accent. 

Because,” Ida answered, slowly, I, too, have lived apart 
from the love and cherishing that should, of right, have been 
mine. I never knew the pressure of a mother’s heart, the 
tenderness of a mother’s voice. Madame Avioli, do you sup- 
pose that if my lost mother had, unconsciously to herself, 
stood in my presence, her mother-heart would have guided 
her to me?” ^ 

Mme. Avioli had stopped in front of Ida, and was regarding 
her intently. A strong, convulsive shudder seemed to thrill 
through her slender frame; she put out her fluttering hands 
as if to draw something toward her, but they fell nerveless to 
her sides. 

‘‘ Ida! Ida! why do you ask me this?” she faltered, grow- 
ing pale and red by turns. 

‘‘ Mamma,” murmured Ida, nestling close to her bosom — 

my dear mamma, take your child to your heart — the 
orphaned child, who has longed for this place so many, many 
years.” 

She laid the pearl cross, with its tiny golden chain, in her 
mother’s hand as she spoke — the sign and token of her 
identity. 

‘‘ Ida, is this true, my child? Where did you get this cross 
— the pearl cross my own hands clasped round your neck?” 
cried Mme. Avioli. Oh! can I be sure that this is no base- 
less vision? Are you, indeed, my lost treasure? Let me look 
into your eyes— let me feel your heart beating against my 
own! Call me by the sweet name once again, or 1 shall be- 
lieve that I have been deceived by some cruel dream!” 

‘‘Mamma” — Ida spoke the word as if it were infinitely 
sweet upon her own lips — “ my own mamma!” 

And Mme. Avioli sunk upon her knees to thank God for 
His mercy, with her face hidden in her daughter’s lap, and 
one hand still tightly clasping Ida’s fingers, lest the blessed 
gift should vanish away from her even yet. 

“ Ida,” she said*, looking up as her daughter’s caressing 
touch strayed softly over her lovely disheveled locks, “ how 
long have you known this? Who told you?” 


IDA CHALOKEE’S heart. 


305 


Giuseppe Antonardi told me, mamma. 

Giuseppe Antonardi/'’ slowly repeated the countess. 
“Oh, that dark, evil man! But when, Ida? You have not 
yet told me when.'’^ 

Ida bent over her mother ^s hand, pressing her lips to it as 
she answered: 

“ Seven years ago. 

“ You knew it when you were in Paris before?^^ 

“ Y"es, I knew it then.^^ 

“ And why — 

“ Mamma, said Ida, anticipating the question that trem- 
bled on Mme. Avioli^s lips, “ it is a long and sad story, but I 
will tell you all. It was the false, cruel tongue of Giuseppe 
Antonardi that turned my heart away from you, even after I 
knew that I was your child, but it was through his confession, 
only a few days ago, that I learned how good and true you 
were — how foully I had been deceived.^'’ 

“ Where is he now — this Antonardi ?^^ asked Mme. Avioli, 
passionately. “ If there is law or justice in the land, he shall 
meet with his deserts. Oh, heavens! to think that he has de- 
prived me of my child^s love for seven years !^^ she was pale 
and rigid, and her lips quivered violently. 

“ Mamma, Ida^s arms stole round her neck with soothing, 
tender pressure, “he is now beyond the reach of any earthly 
tribunal. Oh, be calm, be your own sweet self. Giuseppe 
Antonardi is dead!^^ 

“ Dead!’^ repeated Mme. Avioli, the rigid look melting 
from her features. “ Is he indeed dead? But, Ida, I can not 
forgive him, even in the grave. He has wronged me so cruel- 
ly — he has blighted my life so fearfully !^^ 

“ But he has restored us to each other at the last, mamma. 
Now, listen to me, and you shall hear it all. There — close to 
my heart, so — with your cheek against mine. Oh, mamma, I 
never knew it was so sweet to have a mother!’^ 

And with her newly found treasure clasped close to her, Ida 
told the story of her life — her lonely childhood spent in 
wandering from place to place at the fickle will of Pierre 
L'’Echelle, who had taught her to believe she was an orphan; 
her brighter experience at Deepdale Rectory, and the brief, 
happy episode of her married life at Paris, when she had first 
met the Countess Avioli, ignorant of their relationship. Then 
followed the treacherous deception practiced by Giuseppe 
Antonardi, resulting in a total estrangement between the child- 
bride and her unknown mother, and, later, in the separation 


306 IDA CHALOlSrER^S HEART. 

which ended in the sudden and tragical death of her young 
husband. 

“ Mav God have mercy on Antonardi’s soul!'’^ murmured 
Mrne. Avioli, growing white to the very lips, “ for I can never 
forgive him for all the mischief he has wrought. 

And then followed the brief recital of the life of travel which 
succeeded her early widowhood, ending in the sylvan seclusion 
of Beechclitf. 

“ I used to admire the sweet old place when 1 was a child/^ 
she subjoined; “but I never, in my wildest dreams, enter- 
tained the idea of living there. Mamma, you must come and 
be the queen of my little realm — it is the loveliest spot you 
ever saw. No valley on the Ehine is half so picturesque as 
Beeohclitf — you will say so yourself when you see it.'’^ 

“ But, Ida,^^ said Mme. Avioli, looking with a sort of 
searching tenderness into her daughter's face, “ there is some- 
thing you have not told me yet — an unrevealed secret in your 
heart. 

Ida colored scarlet and tried to smile. 

“ How sharp your eyes are, mamma! Yes, you are right; 
there is something 1 have not told you yet — but I can not 
speak of it now. Some time, perhaps — when my heart is less 
full and my brain less wearied, for I shall have no secrets from 
you, mamma darling. But now you forget that I have to 
hear the story of my own life before I can myself remember 
it; the mystery of my solitude and desolation; the fate which 
threw me into the hands of villains like Pierre L^Echelle and 
Giuseppe Antonardi. Oh, mamma, it has been a puzzle to 
me all my life long — a wretched, heart-sickening enigma 

Mme. Avioli looked at Ida^s eager face with sad, tender eyes 
of compassion. 

“ My poor love,^^ she said, caressingly, “ 1 do not wonder at 
it. You have been the guiltless sufferer for the faults of 
others, the powerless instrument of a fate you neither under- 
stood nor were conscious of — a lonely, wandering child, 
brought up on the charity and tolerance of strangers, while 
the wealth of love that should have been yours was yearning 
in vain for some object upon which to expend itself. Yes, it 
is a mystery — a heart-sickening enigma, Ida, and I scarce 
know at which end of the labyrinth of the past to begin in 
telling you the whole. 

She paused a moment, as if to reflect. 

“ Ida,^^ she said, presently, “ if I tell you the history of my 
life, it will involve the mystery of your own. Shall I confide 
all to you!^^ 


IDA CHALONEK^S HEART. 


307 


‘‘ Am I not your daughter, mamma?^^ was the brief, re- 
proachful response. And Mine. Avioli, gently pressing the 
hand that lay within her own, commenced. 


CHAPTER XLVL 

THE STORY OF A LIFE. 

Cah you carry your fancy back, dearest, to a period 
more than twenty years ago, and imagine me a fair, fresh- 
faced English girl of eighteen, with cheeks as rosy as your 
own — more so, I think, than they are just at this mo- 
ment, and golden-brown hair hanging over my shoulders in a 
mass of shining curls?^’ 

I can imagine it very easily, mamma. But — English? 
Pierre L’Echelle was French, and he was my uncle, was he 
not?’^ 

“ True, Ida; but Pierre L^Echelle was only my half-brother, 
the son of a French woman; while 1, younger by many years, 
was the child of my father^s second marriage with an English 
girl, and was born in the heart of Lancashire. We were both 
left orphans very young, not without means, but Pierre 
L^Echelle, who had charge of me and my property, neglected 
the one and squandered the other, displaying to me such traits 
of character, that 1 soon learned to hate and despise him. I 
grew up pretty, at least, so people told me — and I was quite 
ready to give credence to their flattery — so pretty, in fact, that 
at eighteen, my brother Pierre hoped to pay a heavy accumu- 
lation of debt by delivering me over to his brainless young 
creditor, a French nobleman, with as little principle as his 
friend, in the shape of a wife. Monsieur de Vive thought that 
he loved me, and had no idea but that I should prove as docile 
to my brother’s will as most French girls do to their guard- 
ians. But my English spirit and independence rebelled 
against this. 1 did not love Monsieur de Vive, and I did love 
another suitor, Mr. Liscombe, whom 1 had met frequently in 
the little society afforded me by my peculiar position. Pierre 
stormed the citadel of my heart in behalf of his friend by 
threats, entreaties, and commands; but in vain — and one 
night, when he came with renewed solicitations, 1 feigned to 
consent. Arrangements were at once made for a hurried mar- 
riage, but when, on the following evening, De Vive came to 
claim my promise, no bride awaited him. I had secretly fled 
to the English chapel in the place, and married Charles Lis- 
combe. It was a rash, unpremeditated act, but I was in- 
fatuated with his handsome face and regular features, and 


308 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


even had I cared nothing for him, I believe I should have 
married him to escape the persecutions of De Vive, whom I 
hated with an absolute dread and horror! 

‘ ‘ I did not learn until after the act was irremediable, that I 
had made what the world would call a very good matcL My 
husband— and your father, Ida — was the only son and heir of 
Lord Aden, of Adenham, in the county of Kent, but was 
exiled from his home in consequence of his idle and dissolute 
habits, and had not spoken to his father nor corresponded with 
him for years. Nor was I aware at the time of what I after- 
ward learned, with mortification and regret, that Charles Lis- 
combe had been engaged for a long period of time to his 
cousin. Lady Flora Aden, and that this engagement was the 
sole foundation upon which he based the hope of ever being 
restored again to his father^s favor. Lady Flora being the old 
earFs especial darling. All this I learned when it was too 
late. Pierre L^Echelle, ascertaining these circumstances, and 
fevered with the desire for revenge, persecuted us with threat- 
ening to reveal the story of our marriage. Lord Aden was 
elderly and infirm, and my husband had hoped that, by con- 
cealing the fact of his secret marriage until after his father’s 
death — which, in the natural course of events, seemed near at 
hand — the Adenham inheritance would rewaixi his maneuvers. 
In the meantime, my own life was wretched, between the 
waning love of my husband, the threats of my brother, and 
the approaching peril of your birth, which hung over me like 
a great shadowy terror. And at length, when they placed a 
little girl in your father’s arms as the inheritress of the ancient 
name and lineage of Aden, his wrath culminated and he swore 
a deep oath never to look upon your face again, since his 
dearest hope — that of a male heir — had been thus frustrated. 

“ Within three weeks of your birth, he was shot down in an 
affray ‘bet ween police and people in the streets of Paris, and 
buried as quietly as possible, to avoid further investigation by 
the legal authorities, leaving me alone with my fatherless little 

girl- 

“ How I loved you in those dreary days, Ida, you yourself 
can form no idea. You were all the world to me: my com- 
fort, my treasure, my reward from the Lord, for all the 
sufferings of mind and body I had undergone. I repented 
nothing while you were in my arms — your soft eyes, so like, 
and yet so unlike those of your father, were sufficient for me 
to gaze into — your cooing baby voice was the sweetest music 
in the world to me. As a wife, I had been wretched and ill- 
treated'— as a mother, my happiness was divinely perfect. 


IDA CHALOi^’EK^S HEART. 


309 


For three years I lived so — the three happiest years of my 
life. 1 was poor, but I possessed the famous Adenham dia- 
monds, which had passed to my husband through the special 
bequest of his uncle, a childless bachelor, from whom the then 
Lord Aden had inherited them, and Pierre L^Echelle advanced 
me sufficient money on these to maintain me in comfort, if not 
in splendor. 

“ AI that time Lord Aden was taken suddenly ill, and 
Pierre L^Echelle made me believe that if my little child were 
carried to his dying bed, and recognized as the only offspring 
of his son, of whose death he was even then not cognizant, she 
would come into possession of the Adenham estates. 

1 was young and inexperienced, and I believed him — 
moreover, I was just convalescing from a dangerous fever and 
unable to travel myself, so with a doubting heart I gave my 
little one into the charge of L’Echelle and his servant Giuseppe 
A.ntonardi, and pressed my parting kiss on her cheek, never 
dreaming, through all my misgivings, that it was to be for the 
last time. 

“ Oh, Ida, you, who are not a mother yourself, can never 
imagine or conceive the longings, the passionate yearnings, 
the indescribable despair which by turns filled my heart as 
the days and weeks went by and you did not return. At 
length, just as I had decided to risk everything, and go for 
you myself, Pierre L^Echelle came back, and without my 
child. ‘ She is safe,^ he answered to my agonized pleadings, 
and refused to give me any more definite tidings. Lord Aden, 
it seemed, was better when L^Echelle and his little charge 
reached the neighboring hamlet of Adenham, and the latter 
learned from the old clergyman of the place that the faint 
allusion they had ventured to make to his son provoked such 
anger and wrath that they dared say no more. 

‘‘Evidently the time for reconciliation was not then. 
L’Echelle urged me to wait; the old man was weak and en- 
feebled by illness, and could not last long; and when I im- 
plored him to je allowed to go to my child, he sternly refused, 
alleging that my woman-heart and tongue would be sure to 
wreck all their plans. Driven by the strong impulses of 
nature, I rebelled, declaring that no earthly power should 
longer keep me from my babe. 

“ 1 shall never forget my brother's eyes as he looked into 
my face and said, slowly: 

“ ‘ Would you peril your child^s inheritance, and doom her 
to a life of beggary like your own, merely to gratify the selfish 
whim of seeing her?^ 


310 


IDA CHALOKEK^S heart. 


“ ‘ I would risk anything — everything— to he with her/ I 
answered, half maddened by the bereavement 

“ ‘ Very well/ he answered, with a smile that was cruel as 
the grave; ‘ then go to Adenham, ruin your daughter's pros- 
pects, and thwart all your own, if you like, but it will be a 
bootless journey. The child is far enough away from Aden- 
ham. 

‘ Where is she?’ I gasped. 

‘ Beyond the reach of your folly, Beatrice,^ he answered. 

‘ I foresaw this probable scene, and I have averted its conse- 
quences. 

“ ‘ I will go to Adenham, and appeal to the baby’s grand- 
father. ’ 

‘‘ ‘ What good will that do? He can tell you nothing, and 
you will simply be blighting your own future.’ 

‘‘ I felt my own powerlessness, and sunk, half fainting, on 
the floor, covering my face with my hands. 

“ ‘ Listen, Beatrice,’ my brother said, watching me with 
folded arms, and a face which was as hard as adamant. 
^ When you gave De Vive the slip and married this English 
villain, I swore in my inmost heart to be revenged. The vow 
of a L’Echelle is never broken; you yourself can bear witness 
how I have kept mine. ’ 

“ ‘ Pierre, Pierre!’ I faltered, ‘ have mercy on me — give me 
back my child!’ 

“ He turned away from me — his horrible revenge was not 
complete. Oh! Ida, it never was completed until now. He 
is dead and buried years ago, but his wicked plots still 
flourished on, through the agency of his accomplice, Giuseppe 
Antonardi.” 

‘‘ Mamma,” soothed Ida, passing her hands lovingly over 
Mme. Avioli’s throbbing forehead, “ the past is over now, the 
present is all our own. God has given me back to you at last 
— remember that.” 

The words fulfllled their calming purpose. Mme. Avioli 
pressed her lips to her daughter’s hand, and spoke out, in a 
gentler, less excited voice. 

‘‘You can judge, dearest, how these awful events racked 
my very sou] when they flrst occurred, when, at this late 
period, they have such power to rouse me into the resentment 
and grief which should have grown dull with years. I was 
like one distracted. I threw myself at my brother’s feet, 
praying and crying for mercy, but all in vain. I might as 
well have appealed to a marble statue for sympathy and pity. 

“ The years passed on — how I lived through them I can 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


311 


scarcely tell. Looking back upon them, they seem to me like 
a hideous blank of sufering — a fevered trance. After a year 
or two, Pierre L^Echelle disappeared entirely from the orbit of 
my life, and all inquiry or search, as far as I ventured to in- 
stitute it, proved futile. To this day 1 did not know where he 
was, nor what his purposes or occupations were. Eeduced to 
poverty, I had recourse to my half-forgotten accomplishments 
for support, and became traveling governess to an latlian girl, 
the daughter of weaUhy parents, who were anxious to give her 
every accomplishment. I think, starving though I was, I 
could not have been satisfied to settle down quietly even to a 
competence, but going from place to place with my pupil, I 
was supported and encouraged by the ever-present hope, dim 
and uncertain though it seemed, of sooner or later encounter- 
ing my lost child. Had it not been for that possibility, I 
should have perished from heart-sickness and despair. As it 
was, I lived on, wretched and miserable, yet never totally 
without a lingering, sustaining hope! 

“ The night Pierre L^Echelle was murdered — although, 
until to-day, I never knew exactly how or when he 'met his 
end — I saw him by the merest accident at the American hotel 
where he was sojourning. Oh, had I but known then how 
near I was to my darling, how much suffering, how much 
pain we should both have been spared! But he was as relent- 
less as ever, and I left the country ignorant of your past and 
future. 

“ Not long after, a note from Antonardi conveyed to me, 
in guarded sentences, the fact of my brother’s death, leading 
me to infer that my child, too, had perished years before. 
The reason for this last malicious falsehood 1 can not guess, 
unless it was a consequence of Antonardi’s hatred and fear of 
me, as one who had been unwillingly cognizant of many of the 
evil deeds for which he was answerable to the law. 

Almost at the same time I learned that Lord Aden had 
married a young wife, thus frustrating all my hopes of ever 
succeeding to the family estates, that were in no way entailed. 
He knew of his son’s death, but was ignorant that he had 
ever been married, and I did not care to enlighten him. My 
husband’s memory was not sufficiently pleasant to me to ren- 
der me in any way anxious to court the favor of his relations, 
nor had I now a child whose interests 1 was bound to consider. 
This seemed to close the first canto of my life. 

“ The second seemed to open fairer prospects to me. The 
faded remnants of my girlish beauty were still sufficiently at- 
tractive to win the regards of Count Avioli, an Italian noble- 


312 


IDA CHALONER’S heart. 


man of wealth and position, although many years my senior, 
and I married him, for rest and peace. This portion of my 
life was happy, if not ecstatic. I was surrounded by every 
luxury, and my wishes were anticipated almost before they 
had time to shape themselves into form by the devotion of my 
noble-hearted husband. His death, only a year or two after 
our marriage, left me not only wealthy but the possessor of an 
undoubted social station which rendered my position a most 
enviable one in the eyes of the world. 

“ Further than this, dear Ida, I have no history to relate. 
My life has been eventful beyond proportion to the number of 
its years, and I have often felt — ignorant of this blissful mo- 
ment still in store for my future — that 1 cared not how soon 
the summons of death should come to end an existence so full 
of troubles and disappointment. When 1 met you at Paris, 
seven years ago, and was drawn toward you by one of those 
subtle, indefinable instances of sympathy which are so strong 
and unaccountable, 1 felt, for the time being, that there was 
still something worth living for — that perhaps some new inter- 
est might rise up to fill the empty void, the yearning space of 
my lonely heart. But then came your estrangement, to me 
so mysterious, so utterly without the shadow of a single rea- 
son, and once more my scarcely formed dreams were wrecked. 

‘‘ Oh, mamma, whispered Ida, looking up with eyes swim- 
ming in remorseful tears, how cruel 1 was.-"^ 

‘‘ Cruel, but ignorantly so, my dearest,^^ said Mme. Avioli. 
‘‘ Let us forget it all now. Let us remember only that we are 
restored to each other for the future. Oh, Ida, we can never 
be entirely alone again! Stand up, my own treasure; let me 
look at you from head to foot; Jet me feast my eyes upon the 
dear face that is my child/s, and see if I can still trace the 
lineaments I have wept and prayed over so many times in your 
infancy. Yes, you are greatly changed, darling. I do not 
wonder that, when I met you in Paris, I failed to recognize 
you, yet now, looking at you with the eyes of my new enlight- 
enment, I can see that you are my own Ida still. And 
Eeginald — your husband — oh, my darling, if he could be with 
us now!^’ 

The tears rose to Mme. Avioli ’s eyes as she spoke. 

Yes,^^ said Ida, briefly, and in a constrained voice. 

She never liked to speak or think of that past life in which 
she had received so much of love, and had been able to render 
back so little. 

I ought not to dim the happiness of the present hour by 
alluding to his death,"' pursued Mme. Avioli; ‘‘but he was 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


313 


very dear to me. I honored him for his frank, noble nature, 
and respected the traits of cliaracter v/hich were inherent to 
his temperament. He loved you very, very dearly, Ida.^^ 

‘‘ Yes, said Ida, “"but, oh, mamma, tell me, was it my 
fault that I could not return his love in the same measure and 
degree? I tried to love him — I did indeed — and it is only 
since his death that I really knew what love was.'’'^ 

“ And what has taught you the lesson now, Ida?’^ 

Mme. Avioli looked with earnest, questioning eyes into her 
daughter’s crimson face. 

“ Well, iiHmporte, Ida, I will not seek to force your confi- 
dence now. Perhaps you will yet live to know the blessings 
of that heart’s companionship, which my own loveless life has 
taught me to value beyond aught else that earth has to give. 
Oh, Ida! I can wish you no greater happiness, and yet, if 
Eeginald had lived, you might perhaps have learned your own 
heart and his, and been happy — for a nobler nature never 
existed than that which death has separated from you.” 

Ida shuddered. 

Oh, mamma, that never could have been. I did not love 
him — we were not suited to each other.” 

Mme. Avioli arose. 

“ Come to my room, Ida — you will not leave me again while 
we are in London, surely?” 

But I must return to my hotel for my things and Mathilde 
— the coach is at the door,” said Ida. 

‘‘ I will send a servant. I can not spare you again, 7nia 
carissirna /” 

And Ida yielded to the gentle despotism which was so sweet 
at a mother’s hand. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

THE RETURN HOME. 

Mamma,” said Ida, one evening, a few days subsequent 
to that upon which the mother and child were so happily re- 
united, as she came to Mme. Avioli’s side in the twilight, and 
nestled down on a low velvet ottoman at her feet, “ when will 
you go home with me?” 

“ How? Do you mean to America?” questioned her moth- 
er, caressing the soft waves of silken hair which lay over her 
hands. 

“ Yes, to Beechcliff.” 

“ Are you tired of London?” 

“ Not of London alone, mamma, but I am weary of the per- 


314 


IDA CHALOISTER^S HEART. 


pefcual change and glare and glitter of foreign life. I long to 
get back to the peace and stillness of niy sweet old home on 
the Connecticut Kiver. And, besides all this, mamma, I want 
to be in the spot where he told me of his love — where we used 
to wander through the woods and vales together — where I was 
so strangely, indescribably happy. 

For Ida had confided to her mother^s ears the story of the 
happiness which had so marvelously eluded her grasp; the 
love-tale which had been so brief and bright, but which had 
left within her heart such a weight of sadness and vague 
yearning. Poor Ida! she had indeed found a mother, but she 
could not but be conscious that she had lost something which 
might have been dearer and more precious still. 

“ My darling, soothed Mme. Avioli, bending to touch her 
daughter's forehead with her lips, ‘‘ my heart goes with you 
in the wish. It shall be as you wish. We will go to your 
lovely Beechclifi whenever you choose. But, Ida, 1 have been 
wanting to ask you if it were not best to institute more in- 
quiries, both here and in Paris, as to whether Mr. Dorrillon is 
in either place. Or perhaps a note to Admiral Tyndale in 
Scotland — 

“ No, mamma, it is better not,^^ said Ida, firmly. ‘‘ I, too, 
have been thinking over these things, and I believe that it will 
be useless to remain here longer. We have no certainty that 
he has returned to Scotland, and in the vast concourse of 
Paris or London it would be vain to endeavor to ascertain the 
identity of any one person. 

“ But you have not abandoned the idea of finding him, my 
child?^^ 

“No, mamma, Ida looked up with sparkling, earnest 
eyes, and cheeks slightly flushed. “ I shall never abandon 
that resolve. But at Beechclilf I can easily obtain his address 
from Mr. Dudley, if — if you do not think it would be unwom- 
anly for me to write to him — to Dorrillon. 

“I should not regard it so, dearest, said Mme. Avioli; 
“but that is a question which only you must decide for your- 
self."^ 

“ I do not think anything can be unwomanly, mamma, 
while I love him and he loves me,"" rejoined Ida, with a 
dreamy, absent look. 

“You are quite sure of it, Ida?"" 

“ Of what, mamma?"" 

“ Of both, darling."" 

“ I am sure that I love him,"" said Ida, slowly, “ because 
when I think of the possibility of never beholding him, my 


IDA CHALOKEE’S HEAET. 


815 


heart grows sick within me, and I care not how soon death 
comes to set me free. 1 mzis^ see him, mamma — I tell 
him that my heart is all his own!^"* Mme. Avioli breathed a 
scarcely perceptible sigh as she felt Ida^s hand tremble within 
her own. It was all perfectly right and natural; she would 
not have had it otherwise; and yet she could not repress the 
momentary pang of regret at feeling that for the future she 
must be content with a secondary place in the heart of her 
newly recovered daughter, who was all the world to her. 

And,^^ went on Ida, all unconscious of the anguished strife 
that was rending her mother^s heart, ‘‘ that he loves me I am 
equally certain. I have seen it in his face — I have read it in 
his eyes. Oh, mamma, I will not — I can not rest until I have 
brought him back to my heart I’"’ 

Mme. Avioli sighed again. What would not Eeginald Dela- 
mere, the young husband, who was now only a memory of the 
past, have given for the merest tithe of this love which Ida 
poured out so freely upon the man who seemed, in Mme. 
Avioli^s lovingly jealous eyes, a rival to his dead claims? 
What a strange, inscrutable riddle was the human heart! 

When shall we go, then?^^ she asked, almost sadly. 

Would the day after to-morrow be too soon?'"’ questioned 
Ida, wistfully. 

No; I have been anticipating this move, and am in some 
degree prepared for it. My little restless bird must not think 
that the flutterings of her wings have escaped my watchful 
notice!” 

“ Have I been so restless, mamma?” said Ida, laughing 
and blushing. “ I thought I had concealed my feelings per- 
fectly. ” 

“ It is not easy to deceive a mother’s eye. Come, let us go 
upstairs; we have many things to pack, and Ellen and Ma- 
thilde must commence operations immediately, if you are to 
spirit us away so soon.” 

Mme. Avioli’s apartment and that of her daughter, which 
communicated by folding-doors, now thrown wide open, were 
filled (luring the. next day or two with a chaotic mass of dresses, 
jewelry, books, music, and the endless trifles which are indis- 
pensable to a woman’s comfort, whether she is traveling or 
permanently established. Mathilde was buoyantly happy — 
Ellen, the staid waiting-maid of Mme. Avioli, was busy and 
silent, as became her sober English temperament. 

Mme. Avioli herself was engaged in giving orders and 
watching their execution, writing notes of business or courtesy, 
and settling accounts — while Ida sat like one in a dreapa, her 


316 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


cheek resting on her hand, and her eyes fixed steadfastly on 
the floor, trying to read the sealed mystery of the future which 
lay before her vision. Mme. Avioli observed her, quietly 
speaking ever and anon to her, to rouse her for a minute or 
two from the meditation. 

“ It is well for her to think,^’ the mother decided within 
herself; “ but she must not grow too absorbed; neither must 
I seek to read the secret of her heart just now — she is better 
by herself. Sympathy, if need there be of sympathy, must 
come later. My poor, poor little Ida! she is learning, perhaps 
too late, what real love is. God alone must help her through 
this trial, for human aid is powerless 

So passed Ida Delamere^s last days in England ; and when 
she stood on the steamer once more, the salt air blowing back 
her curls, and calling deep, vivid roses into her cheeks, she 
felt that a great oppression was gone, and breathed more free- 
ly. The purple glow of the early autumn sunset had faded 
into dusk on the hills and woods of Beechcliff, and the full 
moon was rising like a tremulous shield of liquid pearl over 
the copse of maples and wild beech, whose leaves were just be- 
ginning to be tinted with the golds and crimsons that foretell 
the many-colored glories of a New England autumn. Although 
one or two light frosts had touched the tenderer foliage on the 
upland hills, the air was deliciously soft and balmy, and bore 
upon its wings the breath of late roses and beds of mignonette 
and trembling violets, while the amber mists through which 
the moon rose were translucent and radiant as the atmosphere 
of midsummer. 

Mrs. Gresham, in her best black silk dress and net illusion 
cap, was holding high counsel with Mrs. Hyde in the house- 
keeper's room, while a flush of excitement on her cheek be- 
tokened the agitated state of her mind. 

To think, Mrs. Hyde,’^ said the good lady, eagerly, that 
the letters should have been delayed, so that we only got them 
at the same time with the telegram, which announces their 
arrival this very night. The postal arrangements must be in 
very great fault somewhere. 

“ I should think so, ma’am said Mrs. Hyde, respectfully. 

“ And such interesting letters, too,” went on Mrs. Gresh- 
am. “ Of course, I always knew there was a mystery con- 
nected with her birth, but who ever dreamed of her mother 
being a countess? And so handsome, too, if she is like this 
picture that Ida has sent me — but pictures do flatter some- 
times, and I shouldn’t think Ida’s mother could be so much 
younger than I am — should you, Mrs. Hyde?” 


IDA CHALONER'S heart. 


317 


Indeed, ma^am, I don^t know/^ said the housekeeper, 
somewhat bewildered by Mrs. Gresham^s rapidity of enuncia- 
tion; “ people’s ages differ.” 

“ Do you suppose she speaks English, Mrs. Hyde?^’ asked 
Mrs. Gresham, excitedly. 

“ If I rightly understand the letter, which you were so kind 
as to read out aloud to me, ma’am, she isn’t foreign, ma’am, 
only married to a foreign husband,” explained the house- 
keeper. / 

“ To be sure — so she is,” said Mrs. Gresham. “ A count- 
ess — and our Ida’s mother — dear me, it seems almost impossi- 
ble! And they will be here at seven o’clock — are you quite 
sure everything is right, Mrs. Hyde — the rooms all ready, and 
the dinner well started?” 

‘‘Yes, ma’am, quite sure,” said the housekeeper, whose 
complacent dependence on her array of well-trainsd servants 
was a riddle in the eye of Mrs. Gresham, accustomed as she 
was to one domestic of the Irish persuasion, who had a chronic 
habit of forgetting. “ Everything will be ready, Mrs. Gresh- 
am.” 

“ When will the young folks be back from their picnic- 
party?” further questioned Mrs. Gresham, whose anxious 
mind seemed to find it totally impossible to rest in quiet. 

“ Not before eleven o’clock, ma’am, certainly — they were 
setting store on ridin’ home by moonlight.” 

“ I hope nobody’ll take cold,” said Mrs. Gresham. “ To 
be sure, it’s a warm night; but one can never be certain about 
damp air and draughts. I’m glad 1 made Angie take an ex- 
tra shawl. Well, perhaps it’s just as well— the travelers 
won’t object to an hour or two of quiet after their long jour- 
ney. A real countess! Dear me! I must go and see that Mr. 
Gresham gets his other coat on, for when he’s once among 
those books, he don’t have any idea of how the time goes.” 

She hurried away to the library, where her better half was 
contentedly established in an easy-chair^ with a pile of folios 
beside him, deep in the pages of some learned volume. 

“ Mr. Gresham,” she cried, bursting out into the middle of 
a polysyllabled sentence, “ you’ve forgotten your coat.” 

“ Forgotten my coat, my dear?” mildly echoed the reverend 
gentleman, with a downward glance at his glossy outer gar- 
ment. “ I think you are mistaken. I put it on as usual this 
morning.” 

“ I mean your best coat.” 

“ It isn't Sunday, my dear, surely!” said Mr. Gresham, let- 
ting his book fall with something of a scared look» 


318 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


Mr. Gresham, you^re enough to make one crazy sighed 
his wife. ‘‘ Don^t you recollect that I told you to change your 
coat because Ida was coming home to Beechcliff with her 
mother, who is a countess — the Countess Avioli?^^ 

Mr. Gresham looked bewildered. 

‘‘ I remember about Ida and her mother, but I must con- 
fess I took no heed of any words concerning a coat. This one 
is very clean, 1 am sure. '^ 

‘‘ My dear! With a great darned spot on the shoulder!^^ 
Darns are no disgrace, Selina; and the coat is clean, al- 
though well worn, and a trifle shining at the seams, for — 

“ But you must change it, nevertheless,^^ peremptorily in- 
terrupted Mrs. Gresham; “ so run upstairs as soon as possible; 
they may be here at any moment. 

Mr. Gresham cast an appealing glance at his wife; but she 
was obdurate, and, with a sigh that might have melted the 
heart of a stone, the good man rose up from his chair and 
slowly took his way toward the chamber which had been al- 
lotted to his special use and behoof during the absence of the 
mistress of the mansion. 

Women are very unreasonable,^^ pondered Mr. Gresham, 
as he slowly twisted himself out of the obnoxious garment. 

The old coat was very comfortable, and had somehow grown, 
by long usage, to fit my joints and muscles as no new coat ever 
could do. Now, 1 donT suppose any living soul would know 
the difference between it and the new one, so long as I sit with 
my back toward them. However, I wonder where 1 put that 
memorandum I copied out of the London edition of Plato last 
night?^^ 

The clergyman stopped short, staring vacantly into the air, 
as he rallied the forces of his memory in search of the forgot- 
ten memorandum. 

‘‘If it isn’t down-stairs in the right-hand drawer of the 
library desk, it isn’t anywhere,” said he to himself, as he de- 
liberately picked up the coat he had just thrown off, and 
elbowed himself into it again. “ Oh, dear! I always told 
Selina this new coat was too tight, and it is not half so com- 
fortable as the other one. ” 

And so Mr. Gresham trudged down-stairs again, exceeding- 
ly ill at ease in the idea that he had sacrificed comfort to gen- 
tility, and got his “ other coat on.” 

“ These women never are satisfied until they have made a 
man miserable,” was his internal comment, as he began the 
search for the missing document. “ As if dear little Ida would 
know, or the countess care, whether I had any coat on at all,” 


IDA CHALOKER's heart. 


319 


While Mrs. Gresham was bustling round the house, watch- 
ing the clock and running to look down the eastern avenue by 
turns, where a double row of spice-odored balsam-trees made 
a black-green awning of dense shadow from the porter^s lodge 
to the carriage-gate. The porter's lodge was being kept by 
the gardener's little blind daughter, in the temporary absence 
of her father and elder sister. 

As Minnie Eiley sat singing on the door-stone, contentedly 
stroking the head of a fat, white kitten, she suddenly paused 
to listen. 

“It isn't a carriage," she murmured to herself, “ nor it 
ain't a horse, but it's footsteps coming along fast and steady. 
And it ain't the laborers on the quarry — it's a gentleman's 
tread; yes, and he's coming here. Company for the big house, 
I suppose." 

And Minnie slipped olf her perch and ran to open the gate 
as promptly as if she were not sightless. 

She was right in her conjectures — a gentleman stood there, 
but she could not see that he was tall, dark, and stately, with 
a Spanish cloak thrown carelessly across his shoulders, and a 
light traveling-cap drawn low over his brows. 

“ Please, sir," cried Minnie, “ if you're going to give me 
anything, don't toss it on the ground, like some of 'em do, 
but put it in my hand, 'cause I'm blind." 

The stranger smiled at this rather broad hint, and drawing 
a piece of money from his pocket, laid it in Minnie's out- 
stretched palm. 

“Mrs. Delamere has not returned, I suppose?" he asked, 
in a voice that faltered strangely. 

“ No, sir," said the child, gleefully fingering her money; 
“ she ain't got back yet; thank'ee, sir!" with a sudden recol- 
lection of the duties of gratitude. 

“ Is there much company at the house this evening?" he 
pursued, doubtfully. 

“ No, sir; they’re all gone up the river, to a picnic, and 
ain't coming back till late, 'cause father said it was like fine 
folkses' thoughtlessness to keep him up till midnight, to open 
the gate. " 

“ That is well," said the stranger, evidently relieved, and 
he struck up the graveled carriage-road, little Minnie still 
standing with her fresh cheeks pressed against the iron fret- 
work of the gate, listening intently to the hasty ring of his de- 
parting footsteps, and wondering in her small mind why he 
walked so fast. 

Yes, Keginald Delamere was walking fast, but not fast 


320 


IDA CHALONER’s heart. 


enoagh to escape from the demon of unrest within him that 
urged him ever restlessly ODward. 

‘'I am a fool/^ he pondered within himself; ‘‘yet I am 
powerless to check myself in this mad folly. 1 seem to have 
passed entirely out of my own domination, to be the sport of 
a fate which I can not escape. 1 had resolved, when the 
barbed arrow of my anguish was first rankling within me, to 
end, by my own suicidal deed, the life which is a wearisome 
burden to myself and a stumbling-block of possible offense to 
others. That brief madness, thank Heaven, was of short 
d uration. My determination is now to leave this country for- 
ever by the earliest gleam of to-morrow morning’s light — the 
wiser and more manly plan. Any coward can cut the Gordian 
knot of trouble with one stroke of a knife, one touch of a trig- 
ger. I have faults, but cowardice is scarcely to be reckoned 
among them, and my resolution is final now. Yet,” he add- 
ed, as he put aside the dense shrubberies, wet with the soft 
dews of the evenfall, and advanced into the sheltered lawn, 
where the drooping boughs of the trees shielded him from ob- 
servation from the lighted windows of Beechcliff, whose red 
glow contrasted so strangely with the softer glow of the full- 
orbed moon above, “ I can not resist the overmastering im- 
pulse which bids me come hither once more, and stand in the 
old spot by the fountain, where her hand lay for an instant in 
mine — to look again on the haunts of wood and field, which 
were so beautiful to me in the enchanted days when I was mad 
enough to believe that she might, in time, learn to love me. 
It is over now, the old fatal spell. I am effectually roused 
from the brief delusion, but I can not pass out of the Western 
World, which has been such a confusion of broken vows and 
blighted hopes to me, without one more glimpse at the lovely 
spot where she will dream away her bright existence. I have 
given up my rash idea of suicide. I shall be brave enough to 
take up my burden, and wait as patiently as may be for God’s 
appointed time; but I can not wait here. My only safety is in 
total separation from her. Here, on the green slope of Beech- 
cliff, I lay down all of hope, or pleasure, or ambition that life 
has to give — and hereafter my sojourn in the world will be 
that of a pilgrim, seeking in far-off lands for the slow coming 
of the Great Eel ease.” 

He stood with folded arms, and head bowed down upon his 
breast, when the soft beams of the moonlight seemed to draw 
a magic circle round about him, and the descending drops of 
the fountain shone and glimmered like a golden veil before his 
eyes — the spot where he had seen Ida last! 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


B21 


My treasure/^ he murmured through his set teeth, the 
light of my eyes — the only woman I have ever loved! God 
help me to be true to her, to myself, in this last hour of peril! 
To have died for her would have been easy, but to live on, and 
never see her more, that is an ordeal more bitter than the 
grave! Ida! Ida! will you never know how more than faith- 
ful I have been? In this world, no! but in the next, where 
there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage, you will 
know it all, my wife, my darling, and perhaps you will learn 
to love me then!^^ 

And as he stood there the cold drops started out on his mar- 
ble-pale brow like dew. Truly, Keginald Delamere had spoken 
the truth — this was worse than death! 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

MRS. GRESHAM AHD THE COUNTESS. 

Mr. Gresham, with one pen back of his ear, another be- 
tween his teeth, and a third convenient to his hand, was en- 
gaged in jotting down some manuscript notes at the library 
desk, when suddenly he felt the pens flying in all directioiis, 
and his shoulder grasped by a nervous hand, that of his wife. 

Quick, Mr. Gresham, quick !’^ ejaculated that lad}^ breath- 
less with the haste wherein she had sped to the library; “ they 
are coming. 

“ Who are coming?^^ slowly demanded the clergyman, star- 
ing at a pen which was sticking upright in the velvet j)ile of 
the thick Turkish carpet — his favorite pen, which, with his 
own hands, he had cut from a goose-quill and formed after 
the pattern dearest to his own heart. 

Why, Ida and the countess, to be sure — the carriage is 
coming up the avenue now — I see the lamps !^^ 

‘‘ Well, let them come. Why should their advent be a sig- 
nal for the destruction of all my pens?^^ 

But Mrs. Gresham, despairing of the efficacy of argument 
in this particular case, wasted no more time or words, but seiz- 
ing her husband by the arm, dragged him, by main force, out 
across the hall into the eastern portico, the Reverend Milo 
yielding himself mechanically a prisoner. As he passed a 
mirror on his way, with clusters of candles burning brilliantly 
on either side of it, in old-fashioned silver sconces, he caught 
a glimpse of a well -remembered darn on the left shoulder of 
his coat, and turned very red, as he darted a side-glance at his 
wife. To think that she had not discovered that he had his 
old coat on, after all! 

11 


322 


IDA CHALOKEK’s HEARl’* 


‘‘ I don't know how it happened/' thought Mr. Gresham, 
as he felt himself brought up with a jerk on the portico. I 
am sure I did change my coat; and I don't think I have two 
coats with darns on the shoulders — zigzag darns, too! But as 
long as Selina don't notice it^ — However, here they come!" 

In the same instant the carriage swept up to the door, and 
the brief bustle of arrival dissipated Mr. Gresham's misgivings 
with a new tide of reflection. 

I am sure I don't know howitw^as," Mrs. Gresham after- 
ward told Angie. “ It was all bustle and confusion, and I sup- 
pose, of course, I was introduced, although I don't remember 
anything about it until I was standing in the drawing-room 
with the countess talking to me as prettily and sweetly as if 
she had been a born American, holding both my hands, and 
thanking me for the kindness I had shown her friendless little 
one. I declare I cried like a child, and kissed her just as if 
she hadn't been a countess at all! And in the midst of 
all I happened to look up suddenly, and there stood your 
precious father, just in the glare of the chandelier, with his 
old coat on, and the great crosswise darn on the shoulder 
peeked out in full view, just as if it had been an ornament! 
I declare I never was so mortified in all my life! And I don't 
see how it happened, for I certainly sent him to change it just 
before they came. But your father isn't a bit like other peo- 
ple." 

No, mamma, he isn't," Angie answered, with the dim- 
pling smile hovering round her lips; " and I am glad of it, 
too." 

“ Dinner is ready, Ida," Mrs. Gresham said, as Mrs. Dela- 
mere was turning away, after the congratulations of their first 
meeting had been exchanged. Won't you come into the 
dining-room now?" 

‘‘ I will go upstairs with Mathilde a minute or two first," 
said Mrs. Delamere, “ if you don't mind the delay." 

The smile with which she spoke faded from her lips as she 
slowly ascended the stairs, and entering her own apartment, 
sunk listlessly into a chair. 

‘‘ There, Mathilde, take off my things," she said, languidly, 

for I haven't a bit of life left. " 

Is madame, then, so weary?" the girl asked, solicitously, 
as she removed the round straw hat and the light shawl Ida 
had worn. 

‘‘Yes, tired — tired," Ida repeated, dreamily. 

“ But to be sure," Mathilde said, “ it was a long journey 
that, from London here." 


IDA CHA LOITER ’S HEART. 


323 


“It is not the journey/’ said Ida, drawing off her gloves. 
“ I don’t know what it is that wearies me so — it is life, 1 
think. ” 

Mathilde looked wonderingly at her mistress; she had no 
consolation to offer in such a case as this. As the girl went 
into the inner room to get Mrs. Delamere’s dressing-box, which 
had been carried up there with the other luggage, Ida drooped 
her head upon the arm of the easy-chair, sick at heart, and, 
as she said, weary beyond the power of words to express. 
How sad this coming back to Beechcliff was, in spite of the 
bright anticipations she had woven round it! How dreary the 
prospect of the long, monotonous years of life that lay beyond! 
Through the entire journey she had clung to the hope that 
Dudley would be able to give them some clew to his friend’s 
address. It all seemed so plain — so probable — surely there 
could be no difficulty about it. And when, in obedience to a 
penciled card sent him by Ida, Mr. Dudley had paid his re- 
spects to the ladies at the Metropolitan Hotel, where they had 
stopped for a few hours, between the arrival of the steamer 
and the departure of the northward train, she was completely 
stunned and taken by surprise to hear Dudley’s nonchalant 
answer to her eager question concerning the whereabouts of his 
Scotch friend. 

“ Upon my word, 1 haven’t the least idea. I didn’t even 
know he had left town. But it’s just like him, exactly — he 
always was a wandering Arab sort of fellow. Address? No, 
of course he didn’t leave any address with me. I know he’s 
not in Scotland, for it was only yesterday I got a letter from 
Admiral Tyndale, and the old gentleman seemed to take it for 
granted that Dorrillon was with me. However, I dare say 
he’ll turn up all right one of these days; and I, for one, am 
not surprised at any sort of freak he may choose to take into 
his head. ” 

That was all the information he had to give; and Mme. 
Avioli, pitying her daughter’s blank look of despair, excused 
themselves to him on the plea of weariness from their journey, 
and Dudley took his leave, saying to himself, that seasickness 
certainly made that poor little Mrs. Delamere look as if her 
face was carved out of alabaster. 

As Ida sat in her room at Beechcliff, in the still apathy of 
a breaking heart, a soft hand touched her, and Mme. Avioli 
bent over her. 

“ Ida — my daughter.” 

The tears, like a blessed torrent of relief, rushedr into Ida’s 


324 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


Oh, mamma, I am so miserable. 

‘^My child, try to endure it; it is the lot of all women, 
said Mme. Avioli, sadly. 

But, mamma, I had thought about it so much — it seemed 
so near to me — oh, mamma, I can not give it up!^^ 

And Mme. Avioli, holding her daughter's cheek close 
against her bosom, with her lips pressed against the dark, 
silky hair, thought within herself that it was the even-handed 
retribution of Providence, thus denying to Ida the same love 
which Reginald Delamere had once sighed for in vain. 

But she only murmured soothing words, remembering the 
anguish of unreturned affection which had overshadowed the 
days of her own youth; and Ida had wept herself quiet and 
composed before Mathilde, who had been motioned back by 
Mme. Avioli, when she would have entered, a few moments 
before, presented herself; and Mrs. Gresham, who was watch- 
ing at the dining-room door, thought she had never seen Ida 
look so lovely, with carmine cheeks, and eyes that glittered 
like dusk diamonds, when she came down to dinner, in a light 
pearl-gray silk, with purple, sparkling amethysts in her ears 
and at her throat. 

“Ida,’^ whispered Mrs. Gresham, detaining the younger 
lady a moment, as Mme. Avioli passed into the room, ought 
I to call her ‘ Your ladyship " when I speak to her? I never 
was acquainted with a countess before. 

Ida broke into a merry laugh. 

‘‘ ‘ Your ladyship,’ indeed! No, certainly not — she is plain 
mamma,” said Ida. 

“But I can’t call her mamma,” said Mrs. Gresham, with 
a puzzled countenance. 

“ Call her Madame Avioli — that is quite sufficient.” 

And Mrs. Gresham went to the head of the table, quite re- 
lieved that this puzzling point was settled. . 

She had a great deal to tell Ida about the occurrences which 
had happened at Beechcliff during her absence, and concern- 
ing the approaching marriage of Angie to Mr. Cleve, with 
various other items of neighborhood news; and Ida tried to 
answer appropriately and look interested; but ever and anon 
she found herself relapsing into abstracted reverie, until at 
length Mme. Avioli good-naturedly took off Mrs. Gresham’s 
attention by the description of the wedding of some duchesses 
daughter or other in London which she had recently attended, 
with a detailed resume of the dress of bride and bride-maids — 
a topic vitally interesting to Mrs. Gresham just at this par- 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 325 

ticular juncture of her life — and Ida took advantage of the 
momentary leisure to stand out upon the western portico. 

“ I shall suffocate if I stay there a moment longer!^’ 
thought poor Ida. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

HUSBAI^-D AND WIFE. 

The moonlight, clear and soft as melted pearl, lay over the 
lovely lawn as Ida stepped out upon the marble floor of the 
portico and made the sylvan scene look like an enchanted 
vision. Ida breathed more freely as she leaned on the marble 
railing and drank in the exquisite beauty of the landscape, her 
pearl-gray dress shimmering around her as if she, too, were 
robed in the moonlight. 

‘‘How much pleasanter it is out here!^^ she murmured to 
herself. “ Oh, I wonder if the idle talk of the outside world 
will always be as wearisome to me as now! Perhaps the bitter- 
ness will pass away after awhile, and yet it never can entirely. 
I must live on as people do after the light and sunshine have 
passed out of their lives — I must learn to be contented with 
the gray shadow and the^ quiet and the eventless days! Oh, 
well, it can not last forever — only a few years at best, and the 
weary vigil will be over.'’^ 

With these thoughts slowly shaping themselves in her mind, 
she descended the broad portico steps and passed down into 
the quiet serenity of the lawn, where the flowers blossomed 
around the rim of the fountain, and the drip of the waters 
played a quiet, perpetual tune in the silence. Her heart 
throbbed as she came close to the fountain— ;-now the associa- 
tions called up another scene, scarcely more than a month ago, 
when she had stood there in the starlight, her hand resting, 
as it rested even now, on the marble edge of the basin, and 
another beside her pleading the story of his love. So short 
awhile ago, yet divided from her now, as it seemed to her ex- 
aggerated fancy, by an eternity of grief and disappointment, 
so brief a glimpse of love, to be followed, alas! by years of 
desolation and solitude! How little had she thought then that 
she saw him for the last time; how far she had been from an- 
ticipating how and when she should next stand there — alone! 

The tears dropped from her eyelashes and sparkled on her 
cheeks as she leaned against the flowery edge of the fountain, 
and a low, sobbing sigh broke from her lips. 

“If I could erase from the records of life the days and 
weeks that have passed — if I could turn back the wheel of 


326 


IDA CHALOl^ER^S HEART. 


time and stand beside him once more!^^ she murmured, 
scarcely above her breath. ‘‘ Oh, Frederic, shall I never see 
you more?^^ 

Softly, like the murmurous sound of the low wind among 
the leaves, the drooping boughs of the elm were put aside, and 
the electric consciousness of a second presence on the lawn be- 
side her thrilled through Ida’s soul, even before she turned 
and saw that she was not alone! 

Ida!’’ 

She uttered a low cry, clinging to the fountain rim for sup- 
port. Was the overtried brain giving way? was this the pre- 
monition of coming delirium which conjured up impossible 
visions? or was her lover dead in foreign lands, and this, his 
specter, come back to haunt her? 

‘‘ Oh, speak to me — speak to me, for Heaven’s sake, Ida!” 
he said, in accents that trembled strangely in their depth. 
“ Tell me that it was my name you spoke, or else ” — and his 
brow hardened with rigid despair, as he heard no sound issuing 
from the parted lips of the woman who stood before him like 
a beautiful statue, “ let me go away from you forever — forever 
— to curse the hour in which I first looked upon your face!” 

He turned from her, striding across the lawn like a dark 
shadow in the moonlight — she put out her hands imploringly. 

Frederic! Frederic! come back to me!” 

And before she was fairly conscious of her own movements, 
she had followed him, and stood with both hands laid plead- 
ingly on his arm, and her eyes lifted, full of appealing light, 
to his face. 

Frederic, I love you; I can not live without you!” 

She could feel the strong thrill that convulsed his whole 
frame as she spoke, but she did not draw away the hands he 
had taken into his own. 

Ida, let me hear the words again. Speak them once more 
that I may be sure that I am not deceived by the testimony of 
my own senses!” he said, slowly, still looking down into her 
eyes. 

There was neither fear nor shrinking coyness in her nature 
now — only the strange, passionate outcry of one human heart 
speaking to another. 

“ I love you! stay with me — for life, without your answer- 
ing love, would be a gift not worth the acceptance! I love 
you, Frederic!” 

He drew her tenderly so close to him that he could feel 
her heart pulsing against his, her soft hair stirred by the deep, 
strong respirations of his breath. This, then, was the moment 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


327 


for which he had hoped and waited all these years — the 
fruition of his lifers harvest — the goal he had striven for — 
silence and despair, for so long! She loved him at last — she 
had given the treasure of her heart voluntarily into his keep- 
ing. 

‘‘ Ida/^ he whispered, as she laid her cheek against his 
breast — Ida — my wife!^^ 

Your wife that is to be, dearest,’’ she answered, looking 
up with something of surprise into his face. 

‘‘ My wife now, by all the laws of God and man!” he an-' 
swered, firmly. Oh, Ida, Ida! look into my face, and tell 
me if you have indeed so utterly forgotten the man who was 
once your husband!” 

She disengaged herself from his arm, and stood back a pace 
or two, startled and very pale. 

‘‘ My husband is dead, and buried at Naples. He perished 
seven years ago,” she said, speaking as if a great weight lay 
on her chest. 

Dearest — nay, do not start from me as if I were a cold, 
wave-drenched corpse. Feel my hand — it is warm and living; 
let me touch my lips to your forehead. Is that the contact of 
a corpse?” 

“ What do you mean? You are not — ” 

“ I am Eeginald Delamere, your own husband, dear one, 
who was not drowned off the Island of Ischia, but stands here, 
living, before you. Sweet love, I never would have claimed 
your hand without your heart; but now that you have freely 
given me your love, I may at last tell you how dearly you have 
been cherished in my widowed heart all these years. Do not 
tremble so. Sit down here beside me, on this rustic chair, with 
your head against my shoulder — so — and let me tell you the 
strange, romantic history that has singled me out for its hero.” 

And there, in the lucid moonlight, with the silver drops of 
the fountain filling in the pauses of his low spoken narrative, 
he told her the strange recital, while her heart throbbed within 
her at the noble chivalry of the nature which had so long gone 
unrewarded, and the deep tide of love grew stronger as she 
listened. 

“ Oh, Eex, is this real?” she murmured, when at length he 
ceased speaking. “ Are you my husband come back from the 
dead?” 

It is real, dearest, and I am your husband come back, not 
from the dead, but from the forgotten. Now tell me once 
again, after all that I have related to you — do you love me?” 


328 


IDA CHALONER^S HEART. 


‘‘ I love you, Kex,^^ she whispered, twining her hand in his 
with a motion he would have given worlds for some years ago. 

"‘I do love you. 1 can not find words to express how 
dearly!^^ 

He pressed J;he little warm hand tenderly in his own. 

“ But, Rex — suppose — 

She stopped here, and he finished the sentence for her. 

‘‘ Suppose you had taken it into your capricious little head 
to fall in love with some one else and marry him? Is that the 
question that is hovering on your lips?^^ 

Yes. 

“ Then, dearest, the record on my grave-stone would have 
wiped out the possibility of any sin on your part,^'’ he an- 
swered, quietly. 

‘‘ Rex, you do not mean — 

“ 1 do mean that I would have died to save you a pang, Ida. 
What would my life have been worth to me in that case? Not 
the turning of a finger. 

She nestled closer to his heart, as if the possible fear thrilled 
her into awe. 

But, Rex, how could you have been so silent all these 
years?’ ^ she asked. 

“ I had learned the lesson of self-government, Ida,” he an- 
swered; ‘‘ but there were times when I was here, in your pres- 
ence, that the shallow tissue of concealment was nearly rent 
asunder.” 

“ Do you mean the night when we stood here beside the 
fountain and you told me of your love? Oh, Rex, if you had 
only spoken then!” 

“ I was not sure of your heart, Ida,” he answered, in a low 
voice. 

‘‘ And, oh — but I have so much to tell you, Rex, and — ” 

She stopped abruptly, the sentence half completed. Mme. 
Avioli was calling to her from the terrace beyond. • 

Ida, you have been out too long in the night damps. 
Come in now, dear. ” 

And as her eyes, straining through the moonlight, perceived 
that Ida was not alone, she added, with something of surprise 
in her accents: 

Who is that with you?” 

Ida rose, with a glance into her husband’s face, where shy, 
exultant triumph and a fullness of trusting love shone softly 
out, and together they walked toward the house. 

‘‘ Madame,” she said, as Mme. Avioli came half-way down 
the steps to meet them, “ this is my husband!” 


IDA CHALOKER^S HEART. 


329 


Why, it is Mr. Dorrillon!^’ called out Mrs. Gresham, who 
had followed the countess to the door opening on the portico. 

‘‘ No!^^ said Ida, her voice thrilled with low, tremulous 
happiness, as her head rested on her husband’s arm, “he’s 
my husband, Eeginald Delamere!” 

And the young husband, standing in the moonlight beneath 
the shadows of the stately portico columns of Beechclilf, felt 
that he had at last conquered Fate, and won, by his own un- 
aided efforts, the brightest jewel in all life’s coronet! 

What more have we to tell? Our tale is ended. The golden 
thread of Love is woven into the fabric of story, and the pen 
which has so long followed the changing fortunes of Ida Dela- 
mere leaves her, at last, a loved and loving wife! 

Has life a brighter destiny than this to offer? 


THE END. 


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105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 20 

100 JJleak House. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 

ens. Second hklf 20 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

108 Cricket on the Hearth, The. 

By Charles Dickens 10 

108 Doctor Marigold. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 10 

111 Little School-master Mark, The. 

By J. H. Shorthouse 10 

112 Waters of Marah, The. By John 

Hill 20 


113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wightwick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. C. 

J. Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

116 Moths. By “Ouida” 20 

117. Tale of the Shore and Ocean, A. 

By William H. G. Kingston.. 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 

Eric Dering. The Duchess ” 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes. 20 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin 

McCarthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black 20 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. 

By William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black.. 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddj^ 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “Ouida” 10 


129 Rossmoyne. By “The Duchess” 10 

130 Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 

E. Bulwer Lytton. 1st half.. 20 

130 Last of the Barons, The. By Sir 

E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 


Dickens. First half 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By William 

H. G. Kingston 10 

184 Witching Hour, The, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ”. 10 

135 Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 

Seven Checks. By R. E. Fran- 
cillon 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 

Other Stories. By “ The 
Duchess” ... 10 


137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By Wm. Black 20 

139 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 

maid, The. By Thomas Hardy 10 

140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 

ter Besant 10 

141 She Loved Him! By Annie 

Thomas 10 

1^2 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. By John 

B. Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By Emile 

Gaboriau 10 


145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan. 20 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Walter Besant 


and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Troll- 

ope 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

149 Captain’s Daughter, The. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

151 Ducie Diamonds. The. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152 Uncommercial Traveler, The. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Buch- 

anan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156 “Fora Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’sHero. By F. W. Robinson 20 

158 Starling, The. By Norman 

Macleod. D.D 10 

159 Captain Norton’s Diary, and 

A Moment of Madness. By 
Florence Marry at 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler 10 

161 Lady of Lyons, The. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lytton 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 

rell 20 

164 Leila ; or. The Siege of Grenada. 

By Bulwer Lytton 10 

165 History of Henry Esmond, The. 

By William M. Thackeray. . . 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

169 Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus. First half 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRAKY— Pocket Editioit. 


170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus. Second half 20 

171 Fortune’s Wheel. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 Foreijrners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge. 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Far jeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W*. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 Millionaire, The 20 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Florence Marryat.. 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

186 Canon’s Ward, The. By James 

Payn 20 

187 Midnight Sun, The. ByFredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
ot “Dora Thorne” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever ? 20 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 Rosery Folk, The. By G. Man- 


194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!” 

By Alison 10 

195 “ Way of the World, The.” By 

David Christie Murray 20 

196 Hidden Perils. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 Husband’s Story, A 10 

199 Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beale 10 

800 An Old Man’s Love. By Anthony 
Trollope 10 

201 Monastery, The. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

202 Abbot, The. Sequel to “The 

Monastery.” By Sir Walter 
Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

MaxO’Rell 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

805 Minister’s Wife, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

206 Picture, The, and Jack of All 
Trades. By Charles Reade... 10 


Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 20 

Ghost of Charlotte Cray, The, 
and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 
Octoroon, The. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

First half 20 

Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

Second half 20 

Terrible Temptation, A. By 

Chas. Reade .*. 20 

Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade \ 20 

Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 20 
Man She Cared For, The. By 

F. W. Robinson 20 

Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 20 
Lady Clare ; or. The Master of 
the Forges From the French 

of Georges Ohnet 10 

Which Loved Him Best? By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen 

B. Mathers 20 

Sun-Maid, The. By Miss Grant 20 
Sailor’s Sweetheart, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

Arundel Motto, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

Giant’s Robe, The. By F. Anstey 20 

Friendship. By “Ouida” 20 

Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton. 20 
Princess Napraxine. “ Ouida ” 20 
Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 20 

Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 20 

Love and Money; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. 10 
“ I Say No ;” or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. By Wilkie Col- 
lins 20 

Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

“ It is Never Too Late to Mend.” 

By Charles Reade 20 

Which Shall It Be? By Mrs. 

Alexander * 20 

Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

Pascarel. By “Ouida” 20 

Signa. By “Ouida” 20 

Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 
Baby’s Grandmother, The. By 
ii, ii. Walford 10 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


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242 Tw6 Orphans, The. By D’En- 

nery 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. First half... 

243 Tom But*ke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. Second half. 

244 Great Mistake, A. By the author 

of “ Cherry ” 

245 Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 

246 Fatal Dower, A. By the Author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” .... 

247 Armourer’s Prentices, The. By 

Charlotte M. Yon^ 2 :e 

248 House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden 

249 “Prince Charlie's Daughter.” 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 

250 Sunshine and Roses ; or, Diana’s 

Discipline. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 

251 Daughter of the Stars, The, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
v^ay, author of “ Called 
BO/Ck 

252 Sinless Secret, A. By “ Rita ” 

253 Amazon, The. By Carl Vosmaer 

254 Wife’s Secret, The, and Fair but 

False. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 

255 Mystery, The. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

ByL. B. Walford 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 

geant 

258 Cousins. ByL. B. Walford 

259 Bride of Monte-Cristo, The. A 

Sequel to “ The Count of 
Monte-Cristo.” By Alexan- 
der Dumas 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 

261 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 

son 

262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part I 
282 Count of Monte-Cristo. The. 
By Alexander Dumas. Part II 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Brad don 

264 Pi6douche, a French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey... 

265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black 

266 Water-Babies, The. A Fairy 

Tale for a Land-Baby. By the 
Rev. Charles Kingsley. 

267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The Mi- 

ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 

269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 

870 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 1 • • . . 


270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Part II 30 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Parti 80 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Part II 30 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marryat 10 

273 Love and Mirage; or. The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 

Be tham-Ed wards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 Three Brides, The. By Char- 

lotte M. Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. 

By Florence Marryat (Mrs. 
Francis Lean) 10 

277 Surgeon’s Daughters, The, by 


Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
His Word, by W. E. Norris... 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Rattlin, the Reefer. By Captain 

Marryat 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

281 Squire’s Legacy, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald 20 

283 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
- of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

284 Doris. By “The Duchess” — 10 

285 Gambler’s Wife, The 20 

286 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

287 At War With Herself. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

923 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 
edition) 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or 

From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” ICH 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte 51. Braeme. (Large 
type edition) 20 

289 John Bull's Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “Brutal 
Saxon” 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

291 Love's Warfare. By Charlotte 

51. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 30 

292 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

293 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 

lotte 51. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


948 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 


edition) 20 

294 Hilda; or, The False Vow. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

204 Lady Hutton’s Ward. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 10 

928 Hilda; or. The False Vow, By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type) 20 

928 Lady Hutton’s Ward. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type) 20 

295 Woman’s War, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme .' 10 

952 Woman's VVar, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 
edition) 20 

296 Rose in Thorns, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow.' By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 


953 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 


riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley ‘ 10 

299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By Cliarlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 10 

302 Blatchford Bequest, The. By 

Hugh Conway , author of 
“Called Back” 10 

303 Ingledew House. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

305 Dead Heart, A. B}^ Charlotte 

M. Braeme. author of “ Dora 
Thorne”.... 10 

306 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

307 Two Kisses. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308 Beyond Pardon. C. M. Braeme 20 

309 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

310 Prairie, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. 

By R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 Week in Killarney, A. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs, 

Cashel-Hoey 20 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill ... 20 
815 Mistletoe Bough, The, Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 


Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 
Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

By Mead and Stream. By Chas. ' 

Gibbon 20 

Pioneers, The; or. The Sources 
of the Susquehanna. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 
Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 
Bit of Human Nature, A. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

Prodigals, The: And Their In- 
heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 10 
Woman’s Love-Story, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Willful Maid, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

Portent, The. By George Mac- 
donald 10 

Phan tastes. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women, By 

George Macdonald 10 

Raymond’s Atonement. (From 
the German of E, Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 
(Translated from the French 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 

First half 20 

Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 
(Translated from the French 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 

Second half,..'. 20 

Polish Jew, The, (Translated 
from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 

Chatrian 10 

May Blossom : or. Between Two 
Loves. By Margaret Lee .... 20 
Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 
Judith Wynne. By author of 
“Lady Lovelace ” 20 


Frank Fairlegh : or. Scenes 
From the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 
Marriage of Convenience, A. 


By Harriett Jay 10 

White Witch, The. A Novel. .. 20 
Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 


Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Family Difficulty, The. By Sa- 
rah Doudney 10 

Mrs, Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

Under Which King? By Comp- 
ton Reade 20 

Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 
Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By La\ira Jean Libbey . • 20 

Baby, The. By “ The Duchess ” 10 


316 

317 

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342 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


7 


348 Talk of the Town, The. By 
James Payn 20 

344 “Wearing: of the Green, The.” 

By Basil . . .* 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

846 Tumbledown Farm. B}’^ Alan 

Muir 10 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince... 20 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing: 

Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 

349 Two Admirals, The. A Tale of 

the Sea. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

351 House on the Moor, The. .By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edw. Garrett 10 

353 Black Dwarf, The. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

354 Lottery of Life, The. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris 10 

356 Good Hater, A. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357 John. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359 Water-Witch, The. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Francil- 

lon 20 

361 Red Rover, The. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 Bride of Lammermoor, The. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
Pastor \ 20 

366 Mysterious Hunter, The; or. 

The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 


367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 Southern Star, The ; or, The Dia- 


mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 
369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

870 Lucy Crofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 

373 Wing-and-Wing. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 


374 Dead Man’s Secret, The ; or. The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon. . 20 

375 Ride to Khiva, A. By Captain 

Fred Burnaby, of the Royal 
Horse Guards 20 


376 Crime of Christmas Day, The. 

By the author of “ My Ducats 
and My Daughter ” 1C 

377 Magdalen Hepburn ; A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 2C 

378 Homeward Bound; or. The 

Chase. By J. F. Cooper 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 2C‘ 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

381 Red Cardinal, The. By li'rances 

Elliot 10 


382 Three Sisters; or. Sketches of 

a Highly Original Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 

383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 

ilton Aid§ 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. By Captain I'red Bur- 
naby 20 

385 Headsman, The; or. The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray; or, “La Petite 

Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet. 10 

387 Secret of the Cliffs, The. By 

Charlotte French 20 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 

Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?”. 10 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Thomas 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “The 

Duchess ” 10 

391 Heart of Mid-Lothian, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

392‘Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 
Walter Scott 20 

393 Pirate, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 Bravo, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

395 Archipelago on Fire, The. By 

Jules Verne 10 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln : or, The Leaguer 

of Boston. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 2G 

400 Wept of Wish-Ton -Wish, The. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or. Passages in the 

Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 
Oliphant 20 

403 An English Squire. By C. R. 

Coleridge 20 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 Merchant’s Clerk, The. By Sam- 

uel Warren 10 


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THE SEASIDE LIBKARY — Pocket Edition. 


407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville. 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant ". 10 

411 Bitter Atonement, A. By Cliar- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 
418 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fen- 

imore Cooper 20 

-^14 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 
“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 Ways of the Hour, The. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

41G Jack Tier; or, The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 Fair Maid of Perth, The; or, 

St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir 
Walter Scott 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

419 Chainbearer, The; or. The Lit- 

tlepage Manuscjipts. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Coopei- 20 

421 Redskins, The; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage ]\lanuscripts. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

423 Sea Lions, The; or, The Lost 

Sealers. By J. F. Cooper... 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or, Tne 

V oyage to Cathay. By J. Fen- 
imore Cooper 20 

425 Oak-Openings, The; or. The 

Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

426 Venus's Doves. By Ida Ash- 

worth Taylor 20 

427 Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
The. Formerly known as 
“Tommy Upmore.” By R. 

D. Blackmore 20 

4 ^ Z6ro: A Stoiy of Monte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell-Praed 10 

429 Boulderstone : or. New Men and 

Old Populations. By W. Sime 10 

430 Bitter Reckoning, A. By the au- 

thor of “By (jrooked Paths” 10 

431 Monikins, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

432 Witch’s Head, The. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

133 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

134 Wyllard’s Weird. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

135 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By George TayiOi’* • • 20 


436 Stella. By Fanny Lewald 2^1 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Cihuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 2C 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

ChuzrJewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

438 Found Out. By Helen B. 

Mathers 10 

439 Great Expectations. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 16 

441 Sea Change, A. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

442 Ranthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

443 Bachelor of the Albany, The. .. 10 

444 Heart of Jane Warner, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

445 Shadow of a Ciime, The. By 

Hall Caine 20 

446 Dame Durden. Bj- “Rita”... 20 

447 American Notes. "By Charles 

Dickens 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 
Dickens 20 

449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

450 Godfrey Helstone. By Georgi- 

ana M. Craik 20 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 

the Bar. G. J. Whyte-Melville 20 

452 In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 20 

453 Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

454 Mystery of Edwin Drood, The. 

By Chas. Dickens 20 

455 Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 

456 Sketches b.v Boz. Illustrative 

of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People. By Charles Dick- 
ens 20 

457 Russians at the Gates of Herat, 

The. By Charles Marvin. ... 10 

458 Week of Passion, A; or. The 

Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. By Edward 
Jenkins 20 

459 Woman’s Temptation, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 20 

951 Woman's Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thome ” M 

460 Under a Shadow. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

461 His Wedded Wife. By author 

of “ A Fatal Dower ” 20 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 

land. B}’ Lewis Carroll. With 
forty - two illustrations by 
John Tenniel 20 

463 Redgauntlet. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 


THE SEASn)E LIBHARY—Pocket Edition. 


i64 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 


I !;J0 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 

Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

II 20 

465 Earl’s Atonement, The. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

406 Between Two Loves. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne”. 20 

467 Struggle fora Ring, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

468 Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a 

Sewing-Girl, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret: or, A 

Guiding Star. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 20 

471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

472 Wise Women of Inverness, 

The. By Wm. Black 10 

473 Lost Son, A. By Mary Linskill. 10 

474 Serapis. By George Ebers 20 

jtrfK li..* TN ^ _ TTl_ _ 1. jj mi- - r\r\ 


475 Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 20 

By F. Du Boisgobey 

476 Between Two Sins; or, Married 

in Haste. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

477 Affinities. A Romance of To- ~ 

day. By Mrs. Carnpbell-Praed 10 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 


ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 
Part 1 20 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 

ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 
Partll 20 

479 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon . . 20 

481 House That Jack Built, The. 

By Alison 10 


482 Vagrant Wife, A. By F. Warden 20 
^83 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 
the author of “A Golden Bar ” 10 
484 Although He Was a Lord, and 


Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. By J.Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart. By “ The 

Duchess ” 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s ' Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

490 Second Life, A. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 


491 Society in London. By a For- 

eign Resident 10 

492 Mignon ; or, Booties’ Baby. By 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

Lucas Malet 20 

494 Maiden All Forlorn, A, and Bar- 

bara. By “ The Duchess ”... 10 

495 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 


497 Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

499 Cloven Foot, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


500 Adrian Vidal. By W'. E. Norris 20 


501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

502 Carriston’s Gift. By Hugh 

Conway, author of “Called 
Back” 10 


503 Tinted Venus, The. By F. Anstey 10 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. By 

John Coleman. Illustrated. 10 

505 Society of London, The. By 

Count Paul Vasili 10 

506 Lady Lovelace. By the author 

of “Judith Wynne” 20 

507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 

and Other Stories. By Sir 
Walter Scott 10 

508 Unholy Wish, The. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

509 Nell Hafifenden. By Tighe Hop- 

kins 20 

510 Mad Love, A. By the author of 

“Lover and Lord” 10 

511 Strange World, A. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

512 Waters of Hercules, The 20 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 
Wood 10 

514 Mystery of Jessy Page, The, 

and Other Tales. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 10 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 2C 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

517 Passive Crime, A, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

518 Hidden Sin, The. A Novel 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife, A Novel 20 

520 She's All the World to Me. By 

Hall Caine 10 

521 Entangled. By E. Fairfax 

Byrrne 20 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or. The 

Steel Gauntlets. By F. Du 
Boisgobey 20 

523 Consequences of a Duel, The. 

fiE? JB** Du Boisgobey 20 


10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


524 Strangers and Pilgrims. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories. 

By Hugh Conway, author of 
“Called Back” 10 

526 Madame De Presnel. By E. 

Frances Poynter 20 

527 Days of My Life. The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

528 At His Gate.s. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

529 Doctor’s Wife, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

530 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thom- 

as Hardy 20 

531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 

thony Trollope. First Half.. 20 
531 Prime Minister. The. By An- 
thony Trollope. Second Half 20 
632 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

533 Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh 20 

534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet — 20 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or. Domi- 

neering. By Charlotte M. 
Yonge 10 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 

drew Lang 10 

537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 

538 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne 20 

639 Silvermead. By Jean Middle- 

mas 20 

540 At a High Price. By E. Werner 20 
641 “As it Fell Upon a Day,” by 
“The Duchess,” and Uncle 
Jack, by Walter Besant 10 

542 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

543 Family Affair, A. By Hugh 

Conway, author of “ Called 
Back” 20 

544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don 10 

545 Vida’s Story. By author of 

“ Guilty Without Crime ” 10 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

547 Coquette’s Conquest, A. By 

Basil 20 

548 Fatal Marriage, A, and The 

Shadow in the Corner. By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 

er’s Secret, and Geoi-ge Caul- 
field’s Journey. ByMissM. E. 
Braddon 10 

550 Struck Down. By Hawley Smart 10 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 

Rosa N. Carey. 2 parts, each 20 

552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

553 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey.”) By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

555 Cara Roma. By Miss Grant. ... 20 

556 Prince of Darkness, A. By F. 

Warden 


557 To the Bitter End. By 3Iiss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

558 Poverty Corner. By G. Manville 

Fenn 20 

559 Taken at the Flood. By Miss . 

M. E. Braddon 20 

560 Asphodel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 

don 20 

561 Just As I Am; or, A Living Lie. 

By Miss M. E Braddon 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or. The Rail- 

road of Life. By Frank E. 
Smedley 20 

563 Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

564 At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander. . . 10 

565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 

566 Royal Highlanders, The; or, 

the Black Watch in Egypt. 

By James Grant 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon '. 20 

568 Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant.. 20 

569 Harry Muir. Bv Mrs. Oliphant 20 

570 John Marchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

.571 Paul Carew's Story. By Alice 

Corny ns Carr 10 

572 Healey. By Jessie Fothergill. 20 

573 Love's Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 20 

574 Nabob, The: A Story of Paris- 

ian Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet 20 

575 Finger of Fate, The. By Cap- 

tain Mayne Reid 2C 

576 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

577 In Peril and Privation. By 

James Payn 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Parti. 10 
578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) PartH 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 10 

579 Flower of Doom, The, and 

Other Stories. By M. Betham- 

Ed wards 16 

.580 Red Route, The. By William 
Sime 20 

581 Betrothed, The. (I Promessi 

Sposi,) Alessandro Manzoni. 20 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Mrs. J. H. Needell 20 

583 Victory Deane. By Cecil Griffith 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

585 Drawn Game. A. By Basil.... 20 

586 “ For Percival.” By Margaret 

Veley 20 

587 Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Manville Fenn 90 

588 Cherrv. By the author of “A 

Great Mistake” 10 

589 Luck of the Darrells, The. By 

James Payn 20 

590 Courting of Mary Smith, The. 

^ By F. W. Robinson 90 


THE SEASIDE LIBKaRY—Pocket Edition, 


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691 Queen of Hearts, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 20 

502 Strange Voyage, A. By W. 
Clark Russell 20 

593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 20 

594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Beth am- 

Ed wards 20 

595 North Country Maid, A. By 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 

596 My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “ The Crime 

of Christmas Day” 20 

59V Haco the Dreamer. By William 
Sime 10 

598 Corinna. By “Rita” 10 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. By George 

Temple .’ 10 

600 Houp-La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

601 Slings and Arrows, and other 

Stories. By Hugh Conway, 
author of ” Called Back ”... 10 

602 Camiola: A Girl With a Fortune. 

By Justin McCarthy 20 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

Half 20 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 

ond Half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 

Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 
Half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 

Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 20 

605 Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. 

CnH-ik SO 

607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 

608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 


Carey. In Two Parts, each . . 20 

609 Dark House, The: A Knot Un- 

raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 

610 Story of Dorothy Grape, The, 

and Other Tales. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 10 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Doctor Edith Romney ”. 20 

613 Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths ... 10 

615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

616 Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. 


617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By ” Rita ”. 20 

618 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 

mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

619 Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford. By May Crom- 
melin 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. By M. Linskill 20 

621 Warden, The. By Anthony 

Troliope 10 

622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By 

Aaithony Trollope 10 


623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun 10 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 

626 Fair Mystery, A ; or. The Perils 

of Beauty. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme 20 

627 White Heather. By Wm. Black 20 

628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

of “ My Lady’s Folly ” 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. Second half 20 

631 Christow'ell. By R. D. Blackmore 20 

632 Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 20 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 20 

634 Unforeseen, The. By Alice 

O’Hanlon 20 

635 Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 20 

636 Alice I^orraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 20 

637 What’s His Offence? By author 

of “ The Two Miss Flemings ” 20 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 

Black Horse) Dragoons. By 
J. S. Winter 10 

639 Otliraar, “Ouida.” 2 parts,each 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

641 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

642 Britta. By George Temple 10 

643 Sketch-book of Geoffrey Cray- 

on, Gent, The. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

644 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

Rhoda Broughton 10 

646 Master of the Mine, The. By 

Robert Buchanan 20 

647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin 10 

648 Angel of the Bells, The. By F. 

Du Boisgobey . 20 

649 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

650 Alice; or, The Mysteries. (ASe- 

S uel to “ Ernest Maltravers.”) 

ly Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 

651 “ Self or Bearer.” By Walter 

Besant 10 

652 Lady With the Rubies, The. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

653 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 10 
654 “Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Mrs. Molesworth 10 


12 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


655 Open Door, The. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 

656 Golden Flood, The. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior.. 

657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. Far- 

jeon 

658 History of a Week, The. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 

659 Waif of the “ Cynthia,” The. 

By Jules Verne 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 1st half 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 

tie Murray 

662 Mystery of Allan Grale, The. By 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 

663 Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 

664 Rory O'More. By Samuel Lover 

665 Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 

666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 

lotte M. Yonge 

667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The. 

By Anthony Trollope 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 

669 Philosophy of Whist, The. By 

William Pole 

670 Rose and the Ring, The. By 

W, M. Thackeray. Illustrated 

671 Don Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”.. 

672 In Maremma. By Ouida.” 1st 

half 

672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 2d 

half 

673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 

674 First Person Singular. By Da- 

vid Christie Murray 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thacke- 

ray 

676 Child’s History of England, A. 

By Charles Dickens 

677 Griselda. By the author of “A 

Woman’s Love-Story” 

678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 

681 Singer’s Story, A. By May 

Laffan 

682 In the IMiddle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 

683 Bachelor Vicar of Newforth, 

The. By Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe 

684 Jjast Days at Apsvnch 

685 England under Gladstone. 1880 

—1885. By Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M.P 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 

687 Country Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 


688 Man of Honor, A. By John 


Strange Winter. Illustrated. 1(J 

689 Heir Presumptive, The. By 

Florence Marry at ; 20 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

692 Mikado, The. and other Comic 

Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 
Sullivan 20 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

George Eliot 20 

694 John Maidraent. By Julian 

Sturgis 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 

Deuce. By David Christie 
Murray 20 

696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

698 Life’s Atonement, A. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half ... 20 

699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. First half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. Second half 20 

701 Woman in White, The. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. ' 1st half 20 

701 Woman in White, The. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 2d half 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 

lins. First half 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 

lins. Second half 20 

703 House Divided Against Itself, 

A. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

704 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 

son 10 

705 Woman I Loved, The, and the 

Woman Who Loved Me. By 
Isa Blagden 10 

706 Crimson Stain, A. By Annie 

Bradshaw 10 

707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 

Raveloe. By George Eliot. . . 10 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 26 

709 Zeuobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 

myra. By William Ware. 
First half 20 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 

myra. By William Ware. 
Second half 10 

710 Greatest Heiress in England, 

The. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

711 Cardinal Sin, A. By Hugh Con- 

way, author of “ Called 
Back” 20 

712 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

Allen SC 


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THE SEASIDE LTBR AH Y— Pocket Edition. 


IS 


713 “ Cherry Ripe.” By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

Tighe Hopkins 20 

715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 20 

717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Mar- 

riage Verdict. By Alexander 
Dumas 20 

718 Unfairly Won. By Mrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

By Lord Byron ! 10 

720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E.Bulvver 

Lytton, Bart 20 

721 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. . . 20 

722 What’s Mine’s Mine. By George 

Macdonald 20 

723 Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

724 My Lord and My Lady. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

725 M.y Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

726 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester.. 20 

727 Fair Women. By Jl i s. Forrester 20 

728 Janet’s Repentance. By George 

Eliot 10 

729 Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester... 20 

730 Autobiography of Benjamin 

Franklin, The 10 

731 Bayou Bride, The. By Mrs. 

Maiy E. Bryan. . . .' 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

733 Lady Branksmere. By “The 

Duchess” 20 

734 Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

735 Until thie Day Breaks. By 

Emily Spender 20 

736 Roy and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 

737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

Murray 10 

738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lyall 20 

739 Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

741 Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or, 

The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

742 Love and Life. By Cliarlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 2d half 20 


744 Diana Carew ; or. For a Wom- 

an’s Sake. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 

gle for Love. By Charlotte M 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

746 Cavalry Life; or. Sketches and 

Stories in Barracks and Out. 

Bj J. S. Winter 20 


Our Sensation Novel. Edited 
by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 1C 
Hurrish : A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 
Mabel Collins 20 


An Old Story of My Farming 
Daj^s. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 
Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 1st half SO 
Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 


By Juliana Horatio Ewing. . . Ifi 
King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

How to be Happy Though Mar- 
ried. By a Graduate in the 

University of Matrimon}’' 20 

Margeiy Daw. A Novel 20 

Strange Adventures of Captain 
Dangerous, The. By George 

Augustus Sala 20 

Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

Alma 'fadema lO 

“Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

Rhoda Broughton 2(i 

In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Armitt 20 

Aurelian ; or, Rome in the Third 
Century. By William Ware, 20 
Will Weatherhelm. By William 

H. G. Kingston 20 

Impressions of Theophrastus 

Such. By George Eliot 10 

Midshipman, The, Marmaduke 
JMerry. Wm. H. G. Kingston. 20 
Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

Not Wisely, But Too Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

No. XIII. ; or, 'J’he Story of the 
Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 10 
Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. . 20 
Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

Cometh Up as a Flower. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

Castle of Otranto, The. By 

Horace Walpole 10 

Mental Struggle, A. By “The 

Duchess ” 20 

Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 
Trader. By R. M. Ballantyne 20 
Mark of Cain, The. By Andrew 

Lang 10 

Life and Travels of Mungo 

-Park, The 10 

Three Clerks, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 20 

Pere Goriot. By H. De Balzac 20 
Voyages and Travels of Sir 
John Maundeville, Kt., The. . 10 
Society’s Verdict. By the au- 
thor of “ My Marriage ” 20 

Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. 

By Justin H. McCarthy', M.P. 10 


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14 


THE SEASIDE LTBRAKY— Poc^ket Edition. 


780 Rare Pale Mai garet. By the au- 

thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 

781 Secret Dispatch, The. By James 


Grant 10 

782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

783 Chantry House. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

784 Two Miss Flemings, The. By au- 

thor of “What's His Offence?” 20 

785 Haunted Chamber, The. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

78t) Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By 
author of “ Petite’s Romance ” 20 

787 Court Royal. A Story of Cross 

Currents. By S. Baring-Gonld 20 

788 Absentee, The. An Irish Story. 

By Maria Edgeworth 20 

789 Through the Looking-Glass, 

and What Alice Found There. 

By Lewis Carroll. With fifty 
illustrations by John Tenniel. 20 


790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or, The 
White and Black Ribaiimonr. 
Charlotte M, Yonge. 1st half 20 

790 Chaplet of Pearls, The; or, The 

White and Black Ribaumont. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 

791 Mayor of Casterbridge, The. By 


Thomas Hardy 20 

792 Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 

Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield. First half 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 

Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield. Second half. . . 20 

794 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Al- 

exander 20 

795 Sam’s Sweetheart. By Helen 

B. Mathers 20 

796 In a Grass Country. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

797 Look Before You Leap. By 

Mrs. Alexander . 20 

798 Fashion of this World, The. By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

799 My Lady Gi-een Sleeves. By 

Helen B. Mathers 20 


800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 

800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 

from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 

801 She Stoops to Conquer, and 

The Good-Natured Man. By 


Oliver Goldsmith 10 

802 Stern Chase, A. By Mrs.Cashel- 

Hoey 20 

803 Major Frank. By A. L. G. Bos- 

boom-Toussaint 20 


804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Raek ” 


Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 1st half 20 

Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 2d half 20 

Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. First half 20 

Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. Second half 20 

If Love Be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 20 
King Arthur. Not a Love Story. 

By Miss Mu lock 20 

'Witness My Hand. By the au- 
thor of “ Lady Gwendolen’s 

Tryst” 10 

Secret of Her Life, The. By Ed- 
ward Jenkins '. . . . 20 

Head Station, The. By Mrs. 

Campbell-Praed 20 

No Saint. By Adeline Sergeant 20 
Army Societ 3 \ Life in a Garri- 
son Town. By John Strange 

Winter 10 

Heritage of Langdale, The. By 

Mrs. Alexander 20 

Ralph Wilton’s Weird. By Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

Rogues and Vagabonds. By 
George R. Sims, author of 

“’Ostler Joe” 20 

Stabbed in the Dark. By Mrs. 

E. Lynn Linton Id 

Pluck. By John Strange Winter 10 
Fallen Idol, A. By F. Anstey. . . 20 
Doris’s Fortune. By Flor«nce 

Warden. 20 

World Between Them, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne.” 20 

Passion Flower, A. A Novel. .. 20 
Heir of the Ages, The. By James 

Payn 20 

Her Own Doing. W. E. Norris 10 
Master Passion, The. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 2t 

Cynic Fortune. By D. Christie 

Murray 20 

Efifie Ogilvie. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
Prettiest Woman in Warsaw, 

The. By Mabel Collins 20 

Actor’s Ward, The. By the au- 
thor of “A Fatal Dower”.., 20 
Bound by a Spell. Hugh Con- 
way, author b^ “ Called Back ” 20 
Pomegranate Seed. By the au- 
thor of “ The Two Miss Flem- 
ings,” etc 20 

Kidnapped. Bj" Robert Louis 

Stevenson 20 

Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 

Verne. First half .. 10 

Ticket No. “ 9672.” By Jules 

Verne. Second half 10 

Ballroom Repentance, A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

Vivian the Beauty. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 20 

Point of Honor, A. By Mrs. An- 

nio EiiivarfLs ..... 


805 

805 

806 

806 

807 

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809 

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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


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837 Vagabond Heroine, A. B.v Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 10 

838 Ought We to Visit Her? By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

839 Leah ; A Woman of Fashion. 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

840 One Thing Needful; or, The 

Penalty of Fate. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

842 Blue-Stocking, A. By Mrs. An- 

nie Edwards 10 

843 Archie Lovell. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

844 Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards , 20 

845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or; The Mor- 

als of May Fair. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 20 

S4G Steven Lawrence. Bj’ Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 1st half 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 2d half 20 

847 Bad to Beat. By Hawley Smart 10 

848 My Friend Jim. By W. E. Norris 20 

849 Wicked Girl, A. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

850 Playwright’s Daughter, A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. First half 20 

851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. Second half 20 

852 Under Five Lakes; or, The 

Cruise of the “ Destroyer.” 

By M. Quad 20 

853 True Magdalen, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braemo, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

854 Woman’s Error, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

855 Dynamiter, The. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson and Fanny 
Van de Grift Stevenson 20 

856 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 

ert Louis Stevenson 20 

857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of tlie 

Red House. By Mary E. 

Bryan. First half 20 

857 Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the 

Red House. By Mary E. 
Bryan. Second half 20 

858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

859 Ottilie : An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl, and The Prince of the 100 
Soups. By Vernon Lee 20 

860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

861 My Sister the Actress. By Flor- 

ence Marry at 20 

862 Ugly Barrington. By “ The 

Duchess.” 10 

863 “My Own Child.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

864 “ No Intentions.” By Florence 

Marryat - — 20 


Written in Fire. By Florence 

Marryat 20 

Miss Harrington’s Husband ; or, 
Spiders of Society. By Flor- 
ence Ma rryat " 20 

Girls of Feversham, The. By 

Florence Man-yat 20 

Petronel. By FI oi'ence Marryat 20 
Poison of Asps, The. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

Out of His Reckoning. By Flor- 
ence Marrj^at 10 

Bachelor’s lilunder, A. By W . 

E. Norris 20 

With Cupid’s Eyes. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

Harvest of Wild Oats, A. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

House Party, A. By “ Ouida ”. 10 
Lady Val worth’s Diamonds. By 

“The Duchess” 20 

Mignon’s Secret. J. S. Winter. 10 
Facing the Footlights. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

Little Tu'penny. By S. Baring- 

Gouki 10 

Touchstone of Peril, The. By 

R. E. Forrest 20 

Son of His Father, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don. In Two Parts, each 20 

Children of Gibeon. By Walter 

Besant 20 

Once Again. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
Voyage to the Cape, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

Les Mis§rables. Victor Hugo. 

Parti 20 

Les Miserables. Victor Hugo. 

Part II 20 

Les Miserables. Victor Hugo. 

Partin 20 

Paston Carew, Millionaire and 
Miser. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 20 
Modern Telemachus, A. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

Treasure Island. Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

An Inland Vo 3 -age. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 10 

Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Vera Nevill; or, Poor Wisdom’s 
Chance. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron 20 

That Winter Night; or, Love's 
Victory. Robert Buchanan. . 10 
Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. First half 20 

Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. Second half 20 

Doctor Cupid. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

Star and a Heart, A. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

Guilty River, The. By Wilkie 
Collins 20 


865 

866 

867 

868 

869 

870 

871 

872 

873 

874 

875 

876 

877 

878 

879 

880 

881 

882 

883 

884 

885 

885 

885 

886 

887 

888 

889 

890 

891 

892 

893 

893 

894 

895 

896 


16 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition, 


897 Ang^e; or, A Brokeu J^lossom. 

By Florence Marry at 

898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and Julia 

and Her Romeo, by David 
Christie Murray, and Romeo 
and Juliet, by William Black. 

899 Little Stepson, A. By Florence 

Marryat 

900 Woniaii’s Wit, By. By Mrs. Al- 

exander 

901 Lucky Disappointment, A. By 

Florence Marryat 

902 Poor Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

903 Phyllida. By Florence Marryat 

904 Holy Rose, The. By Walter Be- 

sant 

905 Fair-Haired Alda, The. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 

906 World Went Very W'ell Then, 

The. By Walter Besant 

907 Bright Star of Life, The. By 

B. L. Farjeon 

908 Willful Young Woman. A 

909 Nine of Hearts, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 

910 She: A History of Adventure. 

By H. Rider Haggard 

911 Golden Bells: A Peal in Seven 

Changes. By R. E. Francillon 

912 Pure Gold, By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron. 

913 Silent Shore. Tlie. By John 

Bloundelle- Burton 

914 Joan Wentworth. By Katha- 

rine S. Macquoid 

915 That Other Person. By Mrs. 

Alfred Hunt. Two Parts, each 

916 Golden Hope, The. By W. Clark 

Russell 

917 Case of Reuben Malachi, The. 

By H. Sutherland Edwards.. 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. First half 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. Second half 

919 Locksley Hall Sixty Years Af- 

ter, etc. By Alfred, Lord 
Tennyson, P.L.. D.C.L 

920 Child of the Revolution, A. By 

tlie author of “ Mademoiselle 
Mori ” 

921 Late Miss Hollingford, The. 

By Rosa Mulholland 

922 Marjorie. Bj’’ Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne.” 

287 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 

923 At War With Herself. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 
edition) 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 

925 The Outsider. Hawley Smart. 

926 Springhaven. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st and 2d half, each. 


927 Sweet Cymbeline. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

294 Hilda; or. The False Vow. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

928 Hilda: oi‘, The False Vow. By 

Cliarlotte M. Braeme, author 
of *• Dora Thorne.” (Large 
t3’pe edition) 20 

929 The Belle of Lynn; or. The 

Miller's Daughter. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

930 Uncle Max. By Rosa Noucbette 

Carey. In Two Parts, each.. 20 

931 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 


932 Queenie's Whim. Rosa Nou- 

chette Care^". Two Parts, each 20 

933 A Hidden Terror. Mary Albert 20 

934 Wooed and Married. Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey. 2 parts, each. . 20 

935 Borderland. Jessie Fothergill. 20 

936 Nellie’s Memories. Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey. 'I’wo Parts,each 20 

937 Cashel B^u-on’s Profession. By 


George Bernard Shaw 20 

938 Cranford. Bv Mrs. Gaskell 20 

939 Why Not? Florence Marryat.. 20 

940 The ]\Terry Men. and Other Tales 

and Fables. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 20 

941 Jess. By H. Rider Haggard. . . 20 

942 Cash on Delivery. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

943 Weavers nnd Weft; or, “Love 

that Hath Us in His Net.” B}-- 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

944 The Professor. By Charlotte 

Bronte 20 

945 The Trumpet-Major. Thomas 

Hardy 20 

946 The Dead Secret. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners: or, Lu- 

cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon. First half 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or. Lu- 

cius Davoren, By Miss M. E. 

Braddon. Second half 20 

293 Tlie Shadow of a Sin. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

948 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- 

lotte ]M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne.” (Large type 
edition) 20 

949 Claribel’s Love Story; or. 

Love’s Hidden Depths. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 20 


25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duch- 
ess.” (Large tvpe edition)... 20 
950 Mrs. Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 10 
459 Woman’s Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne.” (Large 
type edition) 20 


20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


17 


951 Woman's Temptation, A. By 


Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

roman’s War, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of Dora 
Thorne ” 10 


952 Woman’s War, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 

297 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 
riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Mar- 

riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 

954 A Girl’s Heart. By the author 


of “Nobody’s Darling” 20 

2S8 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

965 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Cliarlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne.” (Large 
type edition) 20 

956 Her Johnnie. By Violet Whyte 20 

957 The Woodlanders. By Thomas 

Hardy 20 

958 A Haunted Life; or, Her Terri- 

ble Sin. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

959 Dawn. By H. Rider Haggard. 20 

960 Elizabeth’s Fortune. By Bertha 

Thomas 20 

961 Wee Wifie. By Rosa Nouchette 

(^arey 20 

962 Sabina Zembra. By William 

Black. First half 20 

962 Sabina Zembra. By William 

Black. Second half 20 

963 Worth Winning. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

961 A Struggle for the Right; or. 

Tracking the Truth 20 

965 Periwinkle. By Arnold Gray. . 20 

966 He, by the author of “King 

Solomon’s Wives”; and A 
Siege Baby and Childhood’s 

Memoi'ies, by J. S. Winter 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne.” (Large type 
edition) 20 

967 Repented at Leisure. By (Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

.168 Blossom and Fruit; or, Ma- 
dame’s Ward. By the author 

of “ Wedded Hands ” 20 

'69 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or. 

Not Proven. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme. author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 


970 King Solomon’s Wives; or. The 

Phantom Mines. By Hyder 
Ragged. (Illustrated) 20 

971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

Blankharnpton. By John 

Strange Winter 20 

97'2 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 20 

973 The Squire’s Darling. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

974 Strathmore; or. Wrought by 

His Own Hand. By“Ouida.” 

First half 20 

97'4 Strathmore: or, Wrought by 
His Own Hand. By“Ouida.” 
Second half 20 

975 A Dark Marriage Morn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

976 Robur the Conqueror; or, A 

Trip Round the World in a 
Flying Machine. Jules Verne 20 

977 The Haunted Hotel. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

978 Her Second Love. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

979 The Count’s Secret. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Part 1 20 

979 The Count’s Secret. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Part II 20 

980 To Call Her Mine. By Walter 

Besa.nt... : 20 

981 Granville deVigne; or. Held in 

Bondage. By “Ouida.” 1st 

half 2C 

981 Granville de Vigne; or. Held in 
Bondage. By “Ouida.” 2d 
half 20 


982 The Duke’s Secret. By Char- 

lotte 31. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

983 Uarda. A Romance of Ancient 

Egypt. By George Ebers 20 

984 Her Own Sister. By E. S. 

Williamson 20 

985 On Her Wedding 3Torn, and 

The 3Iystery of the Holly- 
Tree. Charlotte 31. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . . 20 

986 The Great Hesper. By Frank 

Barrett 20 

987 Brenda Yorke, and TJpon the 

Waters. By 3Iary Cecil Hay. 20 

988 The Shattered Idol, and Letty 

Leigh. Charlotte 31. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

989 Allan Quatermain. By H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

990 The Earl’s Error, and Arnold’s 

Promise. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 20 

991 3Ir. 3Iidsbipman Easy. By Cap- 

tain 3Iarryat 20 

992 3Iarrying and Giving in 3Iar- 

riage. By 31 rs. 3Iolesworth... 20 

993 Fighting the Aii-. By Florence 

Marr y at 20 


18 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


994 A Penniless Orphan. By W. 

Heimburg: 20 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, and 

That Jieautiful Lady. By 
Charlotte M. Braeiue, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

996 Idalia. By “ Ouida.” 1st half. 20 

996 Idalia. By“Ouida.” 2d half. 20 

997 Forging the Fetters, and The 

Australian Aunt. By Mrs. 
Alexander 20 

998 Open, Sesame 1 By Florence 

Marry at 7 20 

999 The Second Wife. E. IMarlitt. 20 
1000 Puck. By “ Ouida.” 1st half 20 

1000 Puck. By “Ouida.” 2d half . 20 

1001 Lady Adelaide’s Oath; or. The 

Castle’s Heir. By Mrs. Henry 
Wood 20 

1002 Marriage at a Venture. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

1003 Chandos. By “ Ouida.” 1st 

half 20 

1003 Chandos. By “Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

1004 Mad Dumaresq. By Florence 

Marry at 20 

1005 99 Dark Street. F. W. Robinson 20 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

1007 Miss Gascoigne. By Mrs. J. 

H. Riddell 20 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 20 

1009 In an Evil Hour, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 20 

1010 Golden Gates. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

1011 Texar’s Vengeance; or. North 

Versus South. Jules Verne. 
Part 1 20 

1011 Texar’s Vengeance : or, North 

Versus South. By Jules Verne 
Part II 20 

1012 A Nameless Sin. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thome ” 20 

1013 The Confessions of Gerald 

Estcourt. Florence Marryat. 20 

1014 A Mad Love. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme. author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

1015 A Thousand Francs Reward. 

By Emile Gaboriau 20 

1016 A Modern Circe. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

1017 Tricotrin. TheStory of aW’aif 

and Stray. “Ouida.” 1st half 20 

1017 Tricotrin. TheStory of a Waif 

and Stray. “Ouida.” 2d half 20 

1018 Two Marriages. By Miss Mu- 

lock 20 

1019 Major and Minor. By W. E. 

Norris. 1st half 20 

1019 Major and Minor. By W. E. 
Norris. 2d half 20 


1020 Michael Strogofif; or, The Cou- 

rier of the Czar. Jules Verne 20 

1021 The Heir to Ashley, and The 

Red -Court Farm. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 20 

1022 Driven to Bay. By Florence 

Marryat 20 

1023 Next of Kin— Wanted. By M. 

Betham-Ed wards 2(t 

1024 Under the Storm; or. Stead- 

fast’s Charge. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 2(1 

1025 Daisy’s Dilemma. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 26 

1026 A Dark Inheritance. By IMary 

Cecil Hay 20 

1027 A Life’s Secret. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 2S 

1028 A Devout Lover; or, A Wasted 

Love. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cam- 
eron. 2(1 

1029 Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 

1st half 20 

1029 Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 

2d half 20 


1030 The Mistress of Ibichstein. By 

Fr. Heiikel 20 

1031 Irene’s Vow. By Cliarlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 20 

1032 Mignon’s Husband. By John 

Strange Winter 20 

1033 Esther: A Story for Girls. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

1034 The Silence of Dean Maitland. 

By Maxwell Gray 20 

1035 The Duchess. By “ The Duch- 

ess ” ; 20 

1036 Like and Unlike. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

1037 Scheherazade: A London 

Night's Entertainment. By 
Florence Warden 20 

1038 Mistress aud Maid. By Miss 

Mulock 20 

1039 Driver Dallas. By John Strange 

Winter 10 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. By the au- 

thor of “A Great Mistake.” 

First half 20 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. By the au- 
thor of “ A Great Mistake.” 
Second half 20 


1041 Home Again. By George Mac- 
donald 20 

1042 ‘Lady Grace. Mrs. Henry Wood 20 

1043 Faust. By Goethe 20 

1044 The Frozen Pirate. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

1045 The 13th Hussars. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

1046 Jessie. By the author of “ Ad- 

die’s Husband ” 20 

1047 Marvel. By “The Duchess”.. 20 
1043 The Wreck of the “Grosvenor.” 

By W. Clark Russell 20 

1049 A Tale of Three Lions, and On 
Going Back. H. Rider Haggard 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


19 


1050 The Tour of the World in 80 

Days. By Jules Verne 20 

1051 The Misadventures of John 

Nicholson. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 10 

1052 Sigrna’s Sweetheart. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

1053 Young Mrs. Jardine. By Miss 

Mulock 20 

1054 Mona’s Choice. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

1055 Katharine Regina. By Walter 

Besant 20 

1056 The Bride of th^ Nile. By 

George Ebers. 1st half 20 

1056 The Bride of the Nile. By 

George Ebers. 2d half 20 

1057 A Life Interest. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 


1058 Masaniello ; or. The Fisherman 

of Naples. Alexander Dumas 20 

1059 Confessions of an English Opi- 

um-Eater, and The English 
Mail-Coach. By Thomas De 


Quincey 20 

1060 The Lady of the Lake. By Sir 

Walter Scott, Bart 20 

1061 A Queer Race : The Story of a 

Strange People. By William 
Westall 20 

1062 The Deerslayer; or, The First 

War-Path. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper. First half . . 20 

1062 The Deerslayer; or, The First 

War-Path. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper. Second Half 20 

1063 Kenilworth. By Sir Walter 

Scott, Bart. First half 20 

1063 Kenilworth. By Sir V a ter 

Scott, Bart. Secon'' hall ... 20 

1064 Only the Governess By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey.. .. ..20 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise. His 

Greatness, and His Fall. By 
Walter Besant 20 

1066 My Husband and I. By Count 

Lyof Tolstoi 10 

1067 Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 

First half 20 

1067 Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 

Second half 20 

1068 Vendetta 1 or, The Story of One 

Forgotten. By Marie Corelli. 20 

1069 Polikouchka. By Count Lyof 

Tolstoi 10 

1070 A Life’s Mistake. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

1071 The Death of Ivan Iliitch. By 

Count Lyof Tolstoi 10 

1072 Only a Coral Girl. By Gertrude 

Forde 20 

1073 Two Generations. By Count 

Lyof Tolstoi 10 

1074 Stormy Waters. By Robert 

Buohanan 20 

1075 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. 

By Fergus W. Hume 20 


1076 The Mystery of an Omnibus. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

1077 The Nun’s Curse. By Mrs. J. 

H. Riddell 20 

1078 The Slaves of Paris— Blackmail 

By Emile Gaboriau. 1st half.. 20 

1078 The Slaves of Paris. — The 

Champdoce Secret. ByJEmile 
Gaboriau. 2d half 20 

1079 Beautiful Jim: of the Blank- 

shire Regiment. By John 
Strange Winter 20 

1080 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

1080 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

1081 Too Curious. By Edward J. 

Goodman 20 

1082 The Severed Hand. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

1082 The Severed Hand. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

1083 The Little Old Man of the Bat- 

ignolles. By Emile Gaboriau 10 

1084 Chris. By W. E. Norris 20 

1085 The Matapan Affair. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

1085 The Matapan Affair. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

1086 Nora. By Carl Detlef 20 


1087 A Woman’s Face; or, A Lake- 

land Mystery. By F. Warden 20 

1088 The Old Age of Monsieur Le- 

coq. By F. Du Boisgobey. 1st 


half 20 

1083 The Old Age of Monsieur Le- 
coq. By F. Du Boisgobey. 2d 
half 20 

1089 Home Sounds. By E. Werner 20 

1090 The Cossacks. By Count Lyof 

Tolstoi 20 

1091 A Modern Cinderella. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 10 

1092 A Glorious Gallop. By Mrs. 

Edward Kennard 20 

1093 In the Schillingscourt. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

1094 Homo Sum. By George Ebers. 20 

1095 The Legacy of Cain. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

1096 The Strange Adventures of a 

House-Boat. William Black 20 

1097 The Burgomaster’s Wife. By 

George Ebers 20 

1098 The Fatal Three. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

1099 The Lasses of Leverhouse. By 

Jessie Fothergill 20 

1100 Mr. Meeson’s Will. By H Rider 

Haggard 20 

1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. I. 

^ By George Ebers 20 

1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. II. 

By George Ebers 20 

1102 Young Mr. Barter’s Repent- 

ance. By David Christie Mur- 
ray 10 

1103 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker. 

By “The Duch^^s” - 8(1 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


ao 


1104 The Heir of Linne. By Rob- 

ert Buchanan.. 20 

1105 Maiwa’s Revenge. By H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

1106 The Emperor. By George 

Ebers 20 

1107 The Passenger from Scotlana 

Yard. By H. F. Wood 20 

1108 Sebastopol. By Count Lyof 

'J'olstoi 20 

1109 Through the Long Nights. By 

Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 1st half 20 


1109 Through the Long Nights. By 

^ii•s. E. Lynn Linton. 2d half 20 

1110 The Silverado Squatters. By 


Robert Louis Steve>ison ..... 10 

1111 In the Counselor’s House. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

1112 Only a Word. By George 

Ehers 20 

1113 The Bailiff’s Maid. By E. Mar- 

litt ‘ 20 

1114 The Sisters. By George Ebers. 20 

1115 The Countess Gisela. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

1116 Robert Elsmere. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward. 1st half 20 

1116 Robert Elsmere. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward. 2d half 20 

1117 Princess Sarah. By John S. 

Winter 10 

1118 The Elect Lady. By George 

Macdonald 20 

1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. 

First half 20 

1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. 

Second half . . .7 20 

1120 The Story of an African Farm. 

By Ralph Iron (Olive Schrei- 
ner) 20 

1121 Booties’ Children. By John 

Strange Winter 10 

1122 Eve. By S. Baring-Gould. . ... 20 

1123 Under - Currents. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

1124 Diana Barrington. By B. M. 

Croker 20 

1125 The Mvstery of a Turkish Bath. 

By “Rita” 10 

1126 Gentleman and Courtier. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

1127 Madam Midas. By Fergus W. 

Hume 20 

1128 Cousin Pons. By Honor6 De 

Balzac 20 

1129 The Flying Dutchman ; or, The 

Death Ship. By W. Clark 
Russell 20 

1130 The Owl-House. By E. IMarlitt 20 

1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 

Fii-sthalf 20 

1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 

Second half 20 

1132 In Far Lochaber. By 'William 

Black 20 

1138 Our New Mistress; or, Changes 
at Brookfield Earl. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 


1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife. By- 
Charlotte M. Braeme. ' 20 


1135 Aunt Diana. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 20 

1136 The Princess of the Moor. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

1137 Prince Charming. By the au- 
thor of “ A Great Mistake ”. . 20 

1138 A Recoiling Vengeance. By 

Frank Bai rett 20 

1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By 

Thomas Hughes. Vol. I 20 

1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By 

Thomas Hughes. Vol. II 20 

1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C. By H. 

Rider Haggard .' 20 

1141 The Rogue. By W. E. Norris. 

First half 20 

1141 3'he Rogue. By W. E. Norris. 

Second half 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. B}' 

Samuel Warren. Parr 1 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. Bj- 

Samuel Warren. Part II 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel Warren. Part III... 20 

1143 The Inner House. By Waher 

Besant 20 

1144 Rienzi. By SJr E. Bulwer Lyt- 

ton, 20 


Wreck of the “ Copeland.” 

By H. Rider Haggard 20 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

Meredith. 20 


1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

:.... 20 


1148 The Countess Eve. By J. IT. 

Shorthouse 20 

1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 

man. By Edna Lyall. 20 


1150 The Egoist. By George Mere- 
dith. 20 


1151 For Faith and Freedom. By 

Walter Besant. 20 


1152 From the Earth to the Moon. 

By Jules Verne. Illustrated. 20 

1153 Round the Moon. By Jules 

Verne. Illustrated 20 

1154 A Judgment of God. By E. 

W’^erner 26 

1155 Lured Away; or. The Story of 

a Wedding - Ring, and The 
Heiress of Arne. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme............. ^ 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY -Pocket Edition 

i41wa,y!« IJiiclisiiigetl mi4l |jiia1»i*i«1;;ec1. 

WITH HANDSOME LITHO&RAPHED PAPEH COVER. 

LATES'J’ ISSUES: 


NO PRICIC. 

669 Pole on Whist 20 


432 THE WITCH’S HEAD. By 

H. liider Hajrg^ard 20 

1189 A Crooked Path. By Mrs. Al- 
exander 20 


1190 CEEOPATllA: Bein^an Ac- 
count of the Fall and Venge- 
ance of Harmachis, the Royal 
Egyptian, as set forth by His 
Own Hand. By H. Rider 


Haggard 20 

1191 On Circumstantial Evidence. 

By Florence Marry at 20 

1192 Miss Kate; or, Confessions of 

a Caretaker. By “Rita” 20 

1193 The Fog Princes. A Romance 

of the Dark Metropolis. By 
Florence Warden 20 

1194 The Search for Basil Lynd- 

hurst. By Rosa Nouchette 
Carey 30 

1195 Dumaresq’s Temptation. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

1196 A Hardy Norseman. By Edna 

Lyall 20 

1197 The Autobiography of a Slan- 

der, by Edna Lyall: and 
“ Jerry.”— That Night in 
June.” — A Wrong Turning. — 
Irish Love and Marriage. By 
the “Duchess.” 10 

1198 Gred of Nuremberg. A Ro- 

mance of the 15th Century. 

By George Ebers 20 

1199 A False Scent. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 10 

1200 Beechcroft at Rockstone. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

1201 Mehalah. A Story of the Salt 

Marshes. By S. Baring-Go u Id. 20 

1202 Harvest. By John Strange 

Winter 20 

1203 Miss Shafto. By W. E, Norris. 20 

1204 The Lodge by the Sea. By 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 

1205 A Lost Wife. By Mrs. H. Lov- 

ett Cameron 20 

1206 Derrick Vaughan — Novelist. 

By Edna Lyall . . 10 

1207 The Princess and the Jew. By 

I. I. Kraszewski 20 


NO. PRICK. 

1208 Merle’s Crusade. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 20 

1209 A Troublesome Girl. By “ The 

Duchess 20 

1210 Marooned. By W.Clark Russell 20 

1211 The Day Will Come. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

1212 The History of a Slave’ By H. 

H. Johnston, F. R. G. S., F. 

Z. S., etc 20 

1213 Jenny Harlowe. By W. Clark 

Russell 10 

1214 Wild Darrie. By David Chris- 

tie Murray and H. Herman.. . 20 

1215 Adrian Lyle. By “Rita” 20 

1216 The Story of a Clergyman’s 

Daughter; or. Reminiscences 
from the Life of my old 
Friend. Bv W. Heimburg. .. 20 

1217 Uncle Piper of Piper’s Hill. 

An Australian Novel. By 


Tasma 20 

1218 Masterman Ready; or. The 

AVreck of the “ Pacific.” By 
Captain Marryat 20 

1219 That Other Woman. By Annie 

Thomas 20 

1220 Mistress Beatrice Cope; or, 

Passages in the IJfe of a 
Jacobite's Daughter. By M. 

E. LeClerc 20 

1221 “The Tents of Shem.” By 

Grant Allen 20 

1222 Jacques Bonhomme.— J o h n 

Bull on the Continent.— From 
my Letter-Box. By Max 
O’Rell 20 

1223 A Little Fool. By John Strange 

Winter 10 

1224 The Curse of Carne’s Hold. 

A Tale of Adventure. By 
G. A. Henty 20 

1227 The Penance of John Logan, 

and A Snow Idyl. By William 
Black 20 

1228 The Master of Ballantrae. A 

Winter’s Tale. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 20 

1230 The Phantom Ship. By Cap- 
tain Marryat 20 


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